The Discovery of Heart
by Psyche0610
Summary: EDITED! Holmes knew that Moriarty was up to something: that’s why he was around Moriarty’s flat that fateful night. But what Holmes didn’t know was that Moriarty was developing a device that could change a man’s location, or even time....
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing; Sherlock Holmes and Company belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Note: I know I hate it when people use really exotic names for their characters that are never actually seen in life, but I broke my own rule. My character is named Sian, and I've been calling her that far too long to change it now. "Sian" is pronounced "Shawn," and it is the Welsh version of "Jane."

Chapter One

"Is the machine ready, Professor?"

The question was barely audible over the clanging of metal. Professor James Moriarty dropped his arms to his side, letting his tool fall to the floor. Neither Moriarty nor his assistant seemed to notice the clang as it hit the ground; both were too enraptured with the glorious device that lay on the table.

"Professor?" the assistant persisted.

"It is done," Moriarty whispered. He smiled to himself, an evilly wicked, teeth-baring smile. _At last!_ It had nearly been a year since he had first concocted the very notion of the device, and now, here it was, ready to be tested. "It is done!" Moriarty shouted triumphantly, his voice echoing in the vastness of his laboratory.

"So it may be used?" the assistant asked. "May I use it?"

"No," Moriarty said. "No. This is just a prototype; it may not work properly the first time, if at all. And, if it does work, then it could quite plausibly be very dangerous."

"Then how will we know it works if we're not allowed to test it?" the assistant wanted to know.

"Oh, _we_ won't test it out, but rest assured, it will be tested."

"What shall we test it on? Should I catch a rat? A cat, maybe?"

"No," Moriarty said wickedly. "This particular experiment calls for a test-subject _far _more important."

---

"I think that Moriarty is up to something."

Watson glanced up, startled, from his scone and the _London Times_. He was surprised, but more so from the fact that Holmes was up this early and less so from his statement. Holmes joined Watson at the breakfast table.

"Could I get a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked as he snatched the paper from Watson's hands. Watson, knowing that he'd never win, surrendered the papers without a fight. Instead, he returned to his own tea.

"What makes you say that?" Watson asked. "We haven't heard from him in ages."

"Which is precisely what makes me say that," Holmes countered just as Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the kitchen, kettle and tea cup in hand. "Listen, my good doctor; my Baker Street Irregulars feel that there's something afoot. Upon my request, they been keeping an especial eye on Moriarty's neck of town, and they seem to think that he's been acting suspiciously."

"And what are you going to do?"

Holmes smirked. "Why, go over there tonight, of course."

---

Holmes had intended to go up to Moriarty's solely for the purposes of investigation. He stealthily crept up to the side of Moriarty's flat, with Watson close behind. No lights peeked out of Moriarty's window.

"He must be out," Watson noted.

"Yes, he must be," Holmes agreed, just as an eerie blue flash came from inside.

"What was that?" Watson asked, alarmed.

"I'm not sure. That light is like nothing I've ever seen before," Holmes mused. "I'm going to investigate." Holmes slunk through the side alleyway and to the back door of the flat. He tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked.

"This is going remarkably easy," Holmes muttered to himself.

"It was meant to be, sir," a voice responded cryptically, before hitting Holmes in the head, making the world go black for the detective.

---

Watson peered through a side window of the flat. He had expected to see Holmes creeping about the house by now. Watson was just about to follow after him when he suddenly noticed the overhead light turn on. He ducked, but kept his gaze at the figures moving in the room.

Two men were dragging an unconscious man across the room. When they moved under the light, Watson had to keep back a cry from surprise.

The unconscious man was Holmes. And one of the other men was none other than his nemesis, Professor Moriarty.

Watson was hesitant; his first instinct was to run into the house to save Holmes, but his common sense kicked in. How would he ever be able beat out two men, revive Holmes, and escape intact? Watson decided that it was wiser to stay put and keep an eye on Holmes's whereabouts. That way, he'd know exactly what to say to Scotland Yard.

Moriarty and the man who Watson assumed was his assistant seemed to be debating something. Moriarty went over to a desk, pulled out some sort of object, and strapped it to Holmes's arm. He then dashed across the room to a large control panel, furiously punched on the buttons. And, with a large blue flash of light and a gasp from Watson's mouth, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into thin air.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own only Sian and Megan.

Chapter Two

"I think that the party's going rather well, don't you?"

Sian snapped back to the present, which was, regrettably, the annual Halloween party at the New London local library. Sian groaned inwardly; her daydreams of beaches and shoe shopping were much preferable to the sounds of screaming and sugar-high five-year-olds dressed as Amelia Bedelia and Pooh Bear.

Sian scowled slightly at Megan, the asker of the question. The two had been best friends ever since that fateful day in the fifth grade when they met; fittingly enough, the two had met in the library, their first conversation being an argument over which girl had gotten to the library first, which is to say, which girl got to check out the latest Baby-Sitter's Club book first. Both Sian and Megan loved books, and their respective careers reflected this mutual love; Sian was a high school English teacher and Megan was the librarian at the New London Local Library.

It was Megan's fault that Sian was at the Halloween party at the library in the first place; had it not been for her, Sian could be at home right now, watching reruns of Gilmore Girls over a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

Megan returned a smile to Sian's scowl. Megan was proud of her Halloween party, and even prouder of her costume, which was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. She smiled as she scanned over the children's costumes; they were instructed to dress like a character from their favorite books, and Megan was happy to see all the little Olivia the Pigs, D.W.'s, and Curious Georges. She turned to Sian, and frowned slightly.

"Who are you supposed to be again?" she asked as she scanned Sian's formal black dress, lace gloves, and cane. "Mary Poppins?"

"No," Sian replied austerely. "I am Miss Marple, detective. You should know," Sian added. "You've read Agatha Christie, too."

"Oh, right. How is anyone else supposed to know that, though?"

"If one was well-read, then one might know," Sian replied primly. A little girl, dressed as Laura Ingalls, went up to Sian and tugged on her skirt. Megan had to bite back a laugh when Laura asked Sian, in the most serious of voices, "Can you sing 'A Spoon Full of Sugar'?"

"You see?" Megan asked after Sian had replied that no, she was not going to be singing, now or ever. "I'm not the only one." Sian sniffed. "Why'd you even pick Miss Marple?"

"Oh, you know me," Sian said. "I'm infatuated with literary detectives. I've _always_ liked Miss Marple…."

"I know, I know," Megan interrupted. "As well as Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poriot, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, the Bobbsey Twins, and Encyclopedia Brown before her."

"Hmmph."

"You forgot the most important reason why you dressed up as Miss Marple," Megan pointed out.

"And what's that?"

Megan grinned. "Well, along came the day of the party, and you were without a costume, so you grabbed an outfit first and assumed a persona later."

"Possibly…." Both women laughed.

"Oh, and speaking of detectives, that man over there must be your date."

Sian turned her head and caught sight of a man dressed impeccably like the popular notion of Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, I do like his costume," Sian said graciously. "He's got the right deerstalker hat and cloak and everything." Megan squinted her eyes at the man.

"Funny, I don't recognize him at all," she mused. "I thought I knew all of the volunteers."

"Maybe he's a parent?" Sian suggested.

"No; none of the parents dress up."

"Hmm. Well, why don't I go over there and get him straightened out, and you can start the candy hunt."

"You're just saying that because you don't want to help out with the candy hunt," Megan accused.

"I see no purpose in lying. Yes, you are exactly right."

Megan made the sound of laughing, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings. "Well, go ahead and straighten him out. I don't want him to end up being a child molester."

"Will do, Meg," Sian said over her shoulder. Sian approached the man, who was looking quite lost, almost fearful. Strange.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" Sian asked him merrily. The man twirled around, the look of suspicion obvious in his eyes.

"How do you know who I am?" he demanded. Sian rolled her eyes.

"Listen, Bud, if you wanted your costume to be a mystery, then you should have picked a lesser-known character."

"Costume?" the man asked, eyeing his clothes.

"Um, yeah," Sian said. "You know, for Halloween. Hence Halloween costume?" The man narrowed his eyes at Sian.

"I know nothing of what you speak."

Sian nearly threw some rather impolite words at the insufferable idiot, but held back, since Madeline and the Man in the Yellow Hat were right behind the man.

"Listen," Sian said slowly, as if she was speaking to a five-year-old. "It is Halloween. We are at a costume party. I am dressed like Miss Marple. You are dressed like Sherlock Holmes. Got it?"

"Of course I'm dressed like Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple," he said. "I _am_ Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course you are, sir. Now, please tell me, are you a volunteer here?"

"A volunteer?"

Sian was losing patience with the man. "Yes, you nitwit! A volunteer! As in, at this party!"

"No, I am not a volunteer at this party."

Sian was beginning to feel the start of a migraine behind her left eye. "Then which of the little buggers is yours?" The man scanned his gaze across the sea of costumed kids.

"The children?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"Why, none of them!" he said indignantly. "I am unmarried!"

"Oh, God." Sian rubbed her temple. "If you're not a volunteer or a parent, then who are you? And what the hell are you doing here?" _Not even_ I _want to be here,_ Sian added to herself.

"I am a detective, Miss Marple. And I don't know what I'm doing here." He paused, glancing to the left and to the right. When he determined that Paddington Bear and Cinderella weren't a threat to him, he continued. "I was trying to solve a case concerning one Professor James Moriarty, and he somehow used this device of his to change my very location, and…."

"My God, you're serious, aren't you?" Sian asked.

"I am very serious indeed, Miss," he replied gravely.

"You're drunk!" she cried.

"I most certainly am not!"

"You're high, then," she decided. "Or at the very least quite insane. Here, come with me." Sian grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him over to where Megan was handing out orange plastic pumpkin buckets to the kids.

"Hey, Megan, I need to head out," Sian said in a low voice. Megan eyed the man attached to Sian's hand.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Yeah. You see, this man is quite, quite lost, and I was going to get him out of here."

"Okay," Megan said.

"Thanks, Meg. You're the best. Have fun."

Sian led the man out of the library. It was only eight o'clock, but already it was as dark as midnight. The moon, appropriately enough, was full, or at least appeared full to Sian's astronomically untrained eye. The sky was clear and cloudless, and all the stars glittered in the blackness. Sian shivered, and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.

The man finally spoke. "Where are you taking me, Miss Marple?"

"I'm taking you to my house," Sian said after some consideration. "You haven't done anything wrong, since insanity isn't a crime, but at the same time, I can't let you around little kids. And stop calling me Miss Marple. That's not my name."

"Then what, pray tell, is your name?"

"Sian Fairfax."

They were silent as Sian led the man from the library to her small house, which was only two blocks away from the library. As they walked up the driveway, Sian said, "And what, sir, is your name?"

The man seemed taken aback. "I thought you knew my name," he said. "You called me by my name from the start." Sian didn't say anything. "My name is Sherlock Holmes." Sian sighed, and led the mad wannabe-detective into her house.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still only own Sian.

And thanks for the kind reviews! Ugh, I was petrified that this was crap… you made me feel so much better. Thank you!

Chapter Three

Holmes was unsure what to make of the situation.

Whatever the case may be, Holmes knew that that contraption of Moriarty's was to blame. As he lay stretched out on Miss Fairfax's guest bed, he considered the possibilities. The obvious answer was that he was insane, but Holmes had lived too long with his arrogance to suddenly doubt himself now. So all that left was time-travel.

Time-travel. It seemed likely. He considered everything he had seen in Miss Fairfax's house earlier; electric lights, those unnerving horseless carriages he had seen on the road, that machine that Miss Fairfax had taken food out of, and that other machine that she stuck food in for the purposes of warming it. Even the objects that Holmes had seen before, even so much as the furniture, had an eerie, futuristic feeling to it.

As he was falling asleep, Holmes's mind drifted to his earlier conversation with Miss Fairfax.

"Okay," she had said, in that pushy was that Holmes was beginning to believe was her normal tone of voice. "Here's my house. Not much of a British tearoom, but it'll do."

Holmes eyed his hostess. "You're mocking me, aren't you, Miss Fairfax?'

"Um, yeah, pretty much." She stalked down the short hallway and stopped at the second door. She pointed at it. "Guest room," she said simply. "You'll stay in there."

Holmes glanced from Miss Fairfax's extended finger, to the door, and back to her face.

"Aren't you concerned at all about having a strange man in your house?" he asked dubiously.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked.

"No."

"Steal my belongings?"

"No."

"Torture me, rape me, kill me?"

Holmes flushed an embarrassing shade of red. "No!" he said, flustered.

"Then what do I need to worry about?" As Holmes was trying to think of an appropriate response, Miss Fairfax turned and walked into the door diagonal from his. "Good-night then, Sherlock."

---

Sian, normally a late-riser on the rare occasions when she was permitted to sleep in, awoke before the sun was even streaming through the cracks of her blinds. Groggily, Sian rolled over to her side, trying to make out the time from the glowing red numbers of her alarm clock.

Six thirty-seven. Groan.

Sian flopped back on her other side and curled into a ball. It was easy to believe that everything that had happened last night had merely been a dream, but it had not. If there _wasn't_ a strange man sleeping in her guest bedroom, then why was Sian's door locked, with a plush chair pushed in front of it? And why else would Sian have a baseball bat leaning casually against her nightstand? Sian almost chuckled; all the precautions seemed rather ironic after the bravado she gave to Sherlock the night before.

Sian tried her hardest to fall back asleep, but it seemed impossible. Sian blamed her guest. Damned psycho-sleuth.

By 7:23, Sian gave up all pretenses of falling asleep. She pushed the chair back to its place by the window, rolled the bat under her bed, out of sight, unlocked the door, and went off to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of coffee would make things right.

It was quarter after nine when Sian heard signs of life coming from the guest bedroom. Sian was on her third cup of coffee and lazily flipping through last month's copy of People magazine, trying to will herself to get up and get a Danish from the fridge. Soon enough, her mystery guest came into kitchen, looking exactly as he had last night, just minus the deerstalker hat. Sian bit back a smile; his hair was all askew and his face was stubbly; not exactly the image of a cool and collected nineteenth century detective.

Sherlock quickly ran his fingers through his hair in a failed attempt to look kempt. When Sian looked up from her magazine at him, he bowed slightly. Sian stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

"Good morning," he said.

" 'Morning," Sian said. "How do you like your coffee? Or, actually, it's probably tea with you, isn't it?"

Sherlock's mouth formed a grim line.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he said stiffly.

Sian dragged herself out of her chair and filled the teakettle with hot water. "Danish?" she asked over the noise of running water.

"No, thank you," he said, still standing.

"Anything I can get you?" Sian asked. Damn him, it was hard to be bitingly sarcastic when he was so damned courteous!

"Actually, I only have one other request for you this morning." Sian looked at him expectantly. Holmes struggled to find the words.

"May I, that is, would you happen to have a place where I might, um… freshen up?"

Sian just looked at him. "You mean you want a shower?" she asked. Holmes looked blank at the word "shower," so she said "Like a bath?"

"Um. Yes."

Sian grabbed him by the wrist. "Follow me." _As if I have a choice,_ Holmes thought as he obediently trailed behind her.

Sian let go of him long enough to open the linen closet to get some fresh towels and a washcloth. She then pushed her way into the bathroom. Holmes followed slowly.

"Here." Sian shoved the towels into Holmes's arms. She then leaned into the tub and started the water. "My faucet is kinda weird," she explained as she pulled the lever that started the shower. "Most people can't figure it out without me explaining first, so I thought I'd save us the trouble." She stopped, studying Holmes. "You need a razor, don't you?" she mused. She dove into the cabinet under the sink and retrieved a pink disposable razor. "Um, sorry that it's a girly razor, but beggars can't be choosers," she said as she tossed it at Holmes.

As Sian left the bathroom, closing the door behind her, Holmes couldn't help but think, _Oh, my God, what a fine mess I've gotten myself into._


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I only own Sian (but I'd rather have Sherlock).

Wow, I am so new at this. I just figured out how to look at my stats and all, and I saw that I had 114 hits! I swear, I almost fainted. I really appreciate the interest in my story. Thanks! And an especial thanks to my two reviewers!

Chapter Four

When Holmes was in the shower, Sian walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. She eyed the telephone on the side table for a minute before she sighed and took the phone out of its cradle.

"New London Police Department," the prim woman's voice on the other end said.

"Um, yes," Sian said uneasily. Why was she feeling guilty about this? It was the responsible thing to do. "I'd like to report a, um, found person."

"Don't you mean a missing person?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"No, I definitely mean found." Sian paused.

"Go on," the woman prompted.

"Well… I found this man last night. At a Halloween party at the New London Local Library."

"What's his name?"

"Um." Somehow, Sian didn't want to admit that he believed himself to be Sherlock Holmes. "We, um, haven't determined his name yet. I think he might have amnesia."

"Okay, dear. What does this man look like?"

"Well, he's about six-foot or 6'2". Black hair, gray eyes. Large Roman nose." _Handsome_…. _Wait!_ Sian thought. _Where did _that_ come from?_

"Age?"

"I don't know. Maybe late-twenties to early-thirties?"

"Okay. We'll let you know if we get any missing person reports about this man. Could I get your name and address, please, ma'am?"

Sian gave the woman her information and hung up, just as Holmes emerged from the steamy bathroom, noticeably cleaner, but still in the ridiculous get-up from the party.

"Is that all you have?" Sian asked. Holmes glanced over at Sian, surprised by her comment.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" he asked.

"Um. Nothing. Besides the fact that you look like a literary detective from the nineteenth century."

Holmes's mouth formed a straight line. "Maybe that is because, Miss Fairfax, I _am_ a detective from the nineteenth century. Who is not a literary character," Holmes added as an afterthought.

Sian merely rolled her eyes in response.

"What is the year, anyway?" he asked. "I know that I am in America, judging from your accent and general lack of manners, but am at a loss as to the precise time and place."

"You know, I'm pretty sick of all of this, so I'll play along. You, Sherlock, are in New London, Pennsylvania, in the year 2006." Sian didn't even bother to look to see how Holmes took the little news update; she was too busy scanning his clothes. "And seeing as we're in New London, Pennsylvania, 2006, and not London, England, eighteen…."

"Eighty-four," Holmes supplied helpfully.

"Whatever," Sian said with a wave of her hand. "And seeing as we're not in London, England, 1884, you, my friend, need some different clothing." Sian chewed her thumb in consideration.

"Okay, we'll stop at a Kohl's or something for your clothes, and then I need to stop by the FYE at the mall for something for school."

"You're in school?" Holmes asked as Sian led him to her car.

"I teach it," Sian said.

"Ah. A schoolmarm?"

Sian glared at Holmes. "No," she said coldly. "I am an English teacher. And don't you dare belittle my profession; the education of our youth is a sacred and noble duty that is entrusted only to the capable." It took everything Sian had within her to hold back her childish "So there!"

"Ah."

"Just get in the other door," Sian snapped. They got in the car. Sian buckled and started the engine. She turned towards Holmes. "Buckle up."

"Buckle up what?" Holmes asked.

"Your seatbelt!"

"What?"

"Oh, God," Sian moaned, before she reached over Holmes's lap and buckled his seatbelt for him. _"Big baby,"_ she muttered under her breath.

Neither of them spoke during the car ride. At one point Sian reached over and turned on her favorite radio station. Queen was playing, which made Sian smile.

"Buddy you're a young man, hard man, shoutin' in the street gonna take on the world someday! You got blood on you face, you big disgrace, wavin' your banner all over the place!" Sian sang along.

"What is this nonsense?" Holmes demanded over the loud chorus of _"We will, we will, rock you!"_

"It's Queen, dude. Classic rock."

"What?"

"Ugh!" Sian forgot momentarily that she was driving as she turned, frustrated, over to face Holmes.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" Holmes shouted as Sian began to swerve into the oncoming traffic.

"Oh, dammit," Sian cursed as she got back into her own lane. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white. "Just turn off the radio. I really don't feel up to explaining music to you right now." Holmes eagerly complied.

Sian, however, was upset with the silence; silence meant that she had to deal with her own thoughts, and no matter what she tried to think of—like that depressing stack of essays she had to yet grade, shoe shopping, or her adorable nieces—she always came back to her stupid _he's handsome_ thought that she had had about the man who believed himself to be Sherlock Holmes.

_Well_, Sian argued with herself, _a man can still be handsome, even when he's as annoying and as frustrating as sin._ Satisfied with the answer, Sian let her mind drift back to her shopping excursion.

Not soon enough, Sian finally made it to the Kohl's. Sian wondered how long Sherlock was going to be staying with her. _Too long, I'm sure_, Sian thought. _I'm going to need a lot of clothes. God, I hope there's a good sale today._

Sian and Holmes climbed out of the car. Sian clicked the lock button on her key ring and smiled when she heard the satisfying "I'm locked!" beep.

She turned to Holmes, who looked like he didn't know what to make of the building, let alone the parking lot. She frowned slightly.

"Um, Sherlock? You can't go in there," she said decidedly. Holmes just looked at Sian.

"Well, why in the blazes not?" he asked angrily. "I thought that this entire excursion was about me!"

"It's just that you look too… too…."

"Too what?"

"Too dressy." Sian bit her lower lip. "Take your cloak off."

"What? No! It's freezing outside!"

"I don't care. Take it off. It'll make you stand out too much."

Grumpily, Holmes threw off his cloak and hung it over his arm.

"Happy?" he asked sarcastically.

Sian shook her head. "Not quite." Hastily, she pulled off his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his white Oxford shirt, untucked it, and ran her fingers through his hair. Holmes went stiff. No woman had ever been so forward as to actually _touch_ him before! Especially not as, well, _intimately_ as Miss Fairfax had! His throat? His _hair_? _His waist?_

Sian, however, didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She pulled back to admire her handiwork.

"Hmmm…." she mused. "Not bad. Not perfect, but it doesn't scream, _'Hey, look at me, I think I'm a British detective!' _anymore." She unlocked the trunk and tossed the cloak and tie inside before slamming it shut again. She turned towards the store.

"Come on, then." She walked about five paces before she noticed that Holmes had remained steadfastly where he was. Sian turned her head at him.

"What?" she demanded.

"You, you," he sputtered.

"I, I…_ what_?"

"You touched me!" he said, his voice edging towards outrage.

Sian considered. "Um, yeah. So?"

"That was highly forward and entirely inappropriate!" Sian smacked her hand against her forehead.

"Oh, God, now you think that I'm a harlot, tramp, hussy, strumpet, or whatever word you want to use, now, right?"

"Well–"

"Listen to me, Detective. If I didn't fix up your look, then you'd stand out like a sore thumb. And, considering your, um, situation, I'd think that you'd want to be inconspicuous." Holmes grudgingly realized that Miss Fairfax had a point.

"Now let's go." This time, Holmes trailed behind Sian.

---

Sian was feeling the comings of yet another migraine.

Shopping for herself was always fun, but shopping for a man was a whole 'nother story. After about an hour of searching the store and trying things on, with Holmes being most uncooperative the entire way, it proved to be such a trying time.

Sian was wiped out by the time she and Holmes found themselves waiting in line to check out. After the woman in front of her herded her children out of the way, Sian unceremoniously plopped her purchases on the counter. Holmes was still in tow.

The cashier, an older woman with a gentle double chin and her glasses perched on the edge of her nose, looked at the heap of men's clothing with a smile.

"All these clothes for the young man and nothing for you?" she asked Sian motherly.

_Aw, crap!_ Sian thought. _I need a story fast!_

"Um, yeah," Sian said. "You see, it's my, um, boyfriend's birthday, and since he lost most of his clothes in a, um, fire, I thought I'd replace them. You know, for his birthday."

Hearing this fib, Holmes instantly stood closer to Sian, wrapping his arm around her waist.

"I am _so_ lucky to have such a great girlfriend," he confessed to the cashier. _My goodness!_ Sian thought. _Is that an_ American _accent he's using?_ It amused Sian immensely. But the possessive way that Holmes had his arm around her confused Sian. She stared at the side of his face, but he didn't hesitate at all in the story. It was almost as if he himself believed that he was Sian's boyfriend.

"What a nice thing to do!" the woman—who's nametag said "Joy"—clucked. "Such a sweet girlfriend—you really should hang on to her, dear," she said conspiringly to Holmes.

"I know," Holmes said in an endearing tone. "I have such a treasure."

Joy clucked again. "And what a nice boy!"

Sian laughed weakly. "What can I say? We're just so lucky."

As they were tossing the bags into the back of the car, Sian turned to Holmes.

"You are a remarkably good actor," she said honestly. Holmes smiled.

"I am, thank you," he replied modestly. "It's all a part of the job, you know."

"What job?" Sian asked dimly.

"Detective work, Miss Fairfax," Holmes replied.

"Ah. I should have known."

"Where are we going now?" Holmes asked politely.

"Ugh, just the mall," Sian said. "I need to run to the FYE."

"And what, pray tell, is an FYE?"

" 'For Your Entertainment.' You see, we just finished reading _All Quiet on the Western Front_ in my class, and I promised my kids that we could watch the really crappy 1930's movie version of it."

"Ah," Holmes said conversationally. He really didn't understand about three-quarters of what Miss Fairfax had just said, but he tactfully decided to let it go.

Eventually, she pulled into a parking spot at the mall, near the entrance close to the FYE. Sian pulled out the keys and suddenly had an epiphany. _Oh, no. It's Halloween weekend. At the mall. Oh, jeez, there's bound to be a truckload of freaks roaming about. I wonder if I can just leave Sherlock in the car? Nah, I can't do that. That'd be too much like leaving a puppy in the car. Or a small child._

Sian leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. She moaned.

Sherlock looked over at Miss Fairfax, puzzled. He gently laid a hand on her arm.

"Is everything alright, Miss Fairfax?" he inquired uncomfortably. My, but he didn't know how to treat a distressed woman!

"Ugh, I'm fine," Sian said, her head still against the wheel. "It's just…." She turned to face Holmes. "It's Halloween weekend. At the mall."

"Yes?"

"And, well, there are going to be many people here. And, well, let's just say that many of them will be a few Froot Loops short of a full box of cereal."

"Beg pardon?"

"There are going to be lots of weirdoes here today. In costume. Just so you're warned."

"Do not fear, Miss Fairfax," Holmes said. "I have seen many strange people while working on the job in the past."

"Not this kind of strange."

They soon found themselves at the Mall Entrance. Sian turned to Holmes.

"Okay, remember what I said. Look straight ahead, make no eye contact, and whatever you do, don't strike up a conversation with any of them."

---

Miss Fairfax had been correct, Holmes soon discovered. There were many costumed "weirdoes," as she had put it, roaming about the building. Holmes nearly flinched as a man in black walked by, whom Miss Fairfax had called "Darth Vader." Whatever that meant.

Miss Fairfax was leading Holmes through the crowd of people, holding him by the wrist. Holmes wondered vaguely if that how she treated everyone, or if she just made an exception for him.

"There's the FYE," Sian pointed out. She expertly wove her way through the throng of people. Ugh, _why_ did the FYE have to be right next to the Spencer's? Sian peeked over her shoulder at Holmes, who was staring intently at the people walking into the Spencer's.

"No eye contact!" Sian hissed as she abandoned his wrist for his elbow. She tugged him into the FYE. "We don't want to have to talk to those people!"

"Very well, very well," Holmes mumbled.

"Okay," Sian said as she dragged him into the store. She let go of him in between the cardboard cutouts of Legolas from _the Lord of the Rings_ and Captain Jack Sparrow from _Pirates of the Caribbean_. "Now, stay here. I'll be right over there in the DVD section. Don't move. I'll be right back."

Sian walked right up to the "A" section and found _All Quiet on the Western Front_ right away. Her mission accomplished all too quickly, she slowly meandered down the sections of DVDs. She noticed that they seemed to be putting out all sorts of old black-and-white movies on DVD now. Sian went down the row of displayed movies; _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_, the Marx Brothers' _Duck Soup_, Charlie Chaplin's _the Kid_. And then she stopped. The title seemed to leap out at her.

_The Adventures of_ _Sherlock Holmes_.

Sian's head automatically turned towards her Sherlock; he seemed to be in his own little world, observing the oddity that was the mall at Halloween. Like a thief, Sian snatched that DVD, hiding it under _All Quiet on the Western Front._ She quickly shuffled up to the register and paid for her purchases.

Tucking her bag under her arm, she went up to Holmes and grabbed his arm. "Come on," she said. "I've had enough of the mall for one day." Holmes, though he didn't say so, quite agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Five

That evening, after Sian thought that Holmes had retired for the night, she unwrapped her Sherlock Holmes DVD and popped it into the player. Sian had always been a fan of mysteries, and Sherlock Holmes, obviously, was the superior detective in the literary world. Who knew that she'd ever find her own deranged nut who thought he was her favorite fictional hero.

While she was absorbed in the movie, she didn't notice another person entering the living room and sitting down next to her on the couch, until he'd already spoken.

"What are you watching, Miss Fairfax?" Holmes asked, looking intently at Sian.

"_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._" Sian felt a little stupid. But why should she? _She _wasn't the one running around, calling herself Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah," Holmes said. He turned his face to the screen and watched Basil Rathbone's portrayal of himself. "And I suppose that man is supposed to be me?"

"That is Sherlock Holmes," Sian said, refusing to play his game.

"Ah." He watched as Nigel Bruce got his foot stuck in a bucket. "And who is that large, bumbling fool supposed to be?"

"Dr. Watson, of course."

"Ah." He studied "Watson." "That is not a flattering portrayal of dear Watson. That man looks nothing like him." Sian slowly turned her head towards Holmes.

"Oh?" she asked innocently. Most people believed that Watson was supposed to be a large, clumsy, mustached man, as he appeared in these movies. Sian herself, of course, knew better, since she had religiously read every single Sherlock Holmes story that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had ever written. Doyle described Watson as being tall, lean, and as "brown as a nut," a tan leftover from his days in Afghanistan. Only the mustache was correct from the popular image.

"Yes. Watson isn't nearly as old as that actor. He walks with a slight limp, as a result from an injury when he was in Afghanistan. He's a fair bit tanned from his army days, as well. And, of course, although Watson may not be as trained as I am in matters of deduction, he is not nearly as idiotic as this portrayal would lead one to believe. He is a physician of medicine, after all."

This man, Sian acknowledged, certainly knew his stuff when it came to Sherlock Holmes trivia. Of course, this knowledge didn't prove that he was Sherlock Holmes, as he claimed; Sian had known everything that he said, and that certainly didn't make her Sherlock Holmes, either.

They continued watching the movie. Holmes would break out laughing at inappropriate points, which would lead to Sian glaring at him.

"Why do they keep making me say, 'Elementary, my dear Watson'?" Holmes asked after the fourth or fifth uttering of the famous phrase.

"It's his catchphrase," Sian explained. Truthfully, she was rather annoyed by it as well.

"Hmm," Holmes said. "I don't think I've ever used that expression in my entire life. 'Elementary, my dear Watson!' How quaint."

Sian grudgingly had to admire him for that; it was very few people who realized that Holmes never actually said that in _any_ of the four novels or fifty-six short stories.

As Sian lay in bed that night, she kept pondering the mystery that was her Sherlock Holmes. _Is there any merit to his story?_ she found herself wondering. _No! No! Of course not!_ she quickly chastised herself. _Just because he knows some Sherlock Holmes trivia does not make him Sherlock Holmes. And that's all there is to it._

Sian rolled over on her side and fell into a restless slumber.

---

Sunday morning found Sian sitting at her kitchen table with a stack of tests and essays to be graded.

Sian was only at her second essay comparing and contrasting Lieutenant Frederic Henry and Paul Bäumer when Holmes wandered in the kitchen.

"Good morning," he greeted her.

"'Morning," Sian said, barely glancing up from her page. She refused to look up when Holmes joined her at the table.

After a few minutes of silence (and when Holmes made it quite clear that he wasn't going to initiate any conversation), Sian asked, "Looking for something to do?"

Holmes considered. "I suppose…."

"Awesome." Sian shoved the stack of tests at him. "Do you mind grading those for me? It's mostly multiple choice, with some true or false and matching. The answer key's up top. Think you can handle it?"

Holmes snorted. "I think so."

They worked silently. Every so often, Sian would sneak a glance of Holmes grading her tests. She watched as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and she sniggered.

" 'I was blown up while we were eating cheese,' " Holmes quoted. "What kind of book is this?"

"_A Farewell to Arms_," Sian replied. "By Ernest Hemingway. Awful book, but it's got some wonderful one-liners."

"Hmmph." Holmes fell to reading again, before he quoted in disgust, " 'You've such a lovely temperature'?" Sian just laughed.

"_A Farewell to Arms_ is the book that everyone loves to hate," she explained.

"It sounds ridiculous."

"Oh, it is."

"Then why on earth are you teaching it?"

"I have to." Sian paused, and set down the essay and red pen. She explained, "Well, this class I'm teaching is a new one; it's an English elective that teaches history through novels. We started with learning about World War II through Elie Wiesel's _Night_ and Joseph Heller's _Catch-22_. We just finished World War I with _A Farewell to Arms_ and Erich Maria Remarque's _All Quiet on the Western Front_. I teach regular ninth grade English too, it's just that this class takes up most of my time since it's the first year and is kind of exploratory yet."

"Sounds riveting," Holmes remarked dryly.

"Literature-hater," Sian accused. She paused. "Well, most literature, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I have reason to believe that you're a big fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

Holmes snorted. "Oh yes, a big fan."

"So you've heard of him, huh?"

"Quite. I happen to be on quite good terms with Mr. Doyle."

"Oh? And how might you know him?"

"Well," Holmes said, "for the obvious reason that I live with him."

Sian raised her eyebrows. "You live with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" she asked skeptically.

"Why, yes."

"I thought that you lived with Dr. John H. Watson!" she accused. She paused, considering, and rushed to add, "Not that I think you're Sherlock Holmes, because you're not."

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is the penname that Watson uses when he writes those sentimental ramblings about my detective work." Sherlock paused. "Is that why you're so adamant about that fact that I am a fictional character? Because of Watson's penname?"

"Um," Sian said tactfully. "Let's just change the subject, shall we?"

Holmes let it go, but Sian couldn't help but notice that he was smirking over the tests

---

Holmes finished correcting the tests before Sian was finished with the essays. Sian peered over the top of the paper, watching as Holmes tried not to look bored.

"Do you want to read a book, or something?" Sian asked. Holmes shrugged. "Oh, right, I forgot; literature hater." Truthfully, Sian was rather relieved that he didn't want to read anything; all of her real literature was on her bookshelf at school, with the only books at home being chick lit. Sian giggled, even as she blushed, at the thought of Holmes reading _the Secret History of the Pink Carnation_, her latest read from the library.

"Um…." Sian racked her brain to think of something to keep Holmes occupied. She thought of the fictional Holmes's favorite pastime, so she reluctantly asked, "Do you play the violin?"

Holmes's face lit up. "Why, yes, I do play the violin."

"Hold on, then." Sian got up and headed down to the guest room. She threw open the closet door and pulled down the dusty violin case from the top shelf. She sneezed as she blew the dust off the top.

Sian could see Holmes's smile when he spotted the violin case in her hand. She handed it to Holmes.

"Here you go," she said.

"Is this your violin?" Holmes asked. Sian nodded. "So you play, too?"

"Oh, no, not really."

"Why did you give it up?"

"I used the play when I was younger. I quit orchestra in eighth grade; I wasn't very talented with the violin, so I moved on."

"Ah." Holmes retrieved the instrument from the case, stroking the polished wood as he did.

"Play something."

Holmes didn't need to be told twice; he ran up the scales for a moment before charging into a song. He closed his eyes, and a relaxed expression settled on his face. He looked very at peace with the violin, Sian noted.

Somehow, watching Holmes play the violin made Sian feel like she was intruding on something private, but she kept watching him. Somehow, the combination of the music he was playing and the peaceful expression on his face gave Sian an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sian, however, dismissed the feeling as being hunger pains, and graded the rest of the essays while mentally going over possibilities for dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Since I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Six

Holmes played the violin until Miss Fairfax was finished grading those essays. When, out of the corner of his eye, he saw she was putting the papers into a folder, he stopped playing.

"Guess what?" Miss Fairfax asked in that queer way of hers.

"I can only imagine."

"Yup. You get to help me make dinner tonight!" Holmes looked wary.

"Oh?" he asked. He hadn't prepared food in his entire life. Why, that was a woman's job!

Holmes was opening his mouth to tell Miss Fairfax just that, but she broke in, saying, "Yes. I figured that since I'm being kind enough to let you stay here, the _least_ you could do is help me make dinner."

Well. He certainly couldn't argue with that logic. He smiled nervously.

"And just what might dinner be tonight?" Hopefully nothing like the food she had ordered the night before. Miss Fairfax had called it pepperoni pizza. Holmes had called it a monstrosity.

"Mmm… I'm thinking fajitas. Ever have fajitas?"

"No."

"Well, then, tonight's your lucky night!"

Miss Fairfax led Holmes into the kitchen. She opened various cupboards and pulled out dishes. "Make yourself useful; pull the peppers and onions out of the fridge." Holmes did as he was instructed.

"Darn knives!" Miss Fairfax complained as she pulled them out of the knife block. "They're so dull. I'll need to sharpen them. Anyway, here's the deal; you slice up the peppers, and I'll do the onions. I wouldn't want to make you cry your first night in the culinary world." Holmes merely rolled his eyes as Miss Fairfax laughed at her own joke.

So they set to work. It wasn't hard work, so Holmes's mind soon wandered.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Holmes yelped, just as the knife missed the pepper and sliced right into his finger.

Sian looked over. Holmes had his hand covering his sliced digit, but Sian could see the blood spurting through the cracks of his fingers.

"Oh, God," Sian moaned as she grabbed a clean dishtowel and dashed over to Holmes's side. She coaxed his hand away from the bloody finger and wrapped the towel around it.

"Just keep the pressure on it," she instructed. Holmes nodded as he grabbed onto the towel. Sian washed the blood from her hands, then went into the cabinet, searching for a Band-Aid.

"Has the bleeding slowed?" Miss Fairfax asked after retrieving a box from the cupboard.

"I think so," Holmes said as he gingerly lifted the towel. Miss Fairfax took his hand in her own and inspected the wound. Holmes shivered at her touch; were all touches so electrifying? Holmes wasn't sure; he couldn't quite remember the last time someone touched him… well, someone besides Miss Fairfax.

"Hmm. Well, I don't think it's deep enough to merit any stitches, so a Band-Aid should do the trick."

Miss Fairfax carefully wiped away the excess blood and gently wrapped the bandage around his finger. She lifted his hand and softly kissed his bandaged finger. Holmes stood rigid. When Miss Fairfax realized what she had done, she immediately dropped his hand, as if sudden movement would erase the moment. It didn't; Holmes's finger still tingled where her lips had touched his skin.

Red-faced and embarrassed, Miss Fairfax said, "Oh, my gosh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry! The only people I put Band-Aids on would be my nieces, and they always insist that I kiss it and make it feel better. Oh!" Miss Fairfax covered her face with her hands. "I guess I just went into normal bandaging-mode and didn't realize. I'm so sorry!"

"That's quite alright," Holmes said unsteadily. They stood silent for a few moments.

"Why don't I just finish up with dinner by myself?" Miss Fairfax suggested.

"That's probably best," Holmes admitted. Miss Fairfax gathered the peppers that Holmes had sliced and added them to her onions. As she was preparing the chicken, Holmes asked, "So, Miss Fairfax, why don't you tell me about your nieces?" Holmes watched as Miss Fairfax visibly got less tense. Judging from the reaction, she was quite fond of her nieces.

"My nieces are two and four," she said brightly. "They're my sister Chelsea's girls."

"What are their names?"

"Well, don't laugh, but… their names are Paris and London."

"Paris and London?" Holmes asked dubiously. "Like the cities?"

"Like the cities," Miss Fairfax affirmed. "And you haven't even heard their middle names yet."

"I can only imagine," Holmes said dryly.

"Paris's middle name is Francine…."

"Paris Francine. Ah. Interesting."

"Yeah, I know. And London's is even worse."

"I doubt that."

"Don't." Miss Fairfax rolled her eyes. "Her name is London Brittany."

"London Brittany?"

"Yeah. Brittany's supposed to sound like Britain. London Brittany. Get it?"

"No, not really."

"Yeah, me neither."

"London is in England. What one says is 'London, England,' not 'London, Britain.' And it's Great Britain, anyway," Holmes pointed out.

"_I_ know that and _you_ know that, but try telling that to my sister. As the names of her daughters might suggest, Chelse isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer." Miss Fairfax paused, glancing at Holmes's bandaged finger. "Maybe that wasn't the best of metaphors at the moment."

"No, probably not," Holmes agreed.

"Fine. Then she's not the brightest bulb on the strand."

"Ah. So, why exactly did she name her daughters after cities? Is it because that her own name is a city as well?"

"Pfft," Miss Fairfax brushed off. "I doubt that my sister realizes that 'Chelsea' is anything more than a girl's name."

"Why don't you get along with your sister?"

"Who says that I don't get along with my sister?"

"Intuition. It's my job, madam."

"Hmm. Well, you're right. I guess there's always been this unspoken rivalry between me and Chelsea. It's like… no matter what I do, I'll never measure up to Chelsea."

"Your parents judge you?"

"Well, my mother does. Chelsea's always been such a Mommy's girl. My Dad was always there for me, though. But truly, I am the more successful Fairfax daughter. I completed college with honors, I have a good job, I own my own home, and I'm steady on my own two feet. Chelsea just went to college to pursue an MRS…."

"Em-are-ess?"

"Spells 'missus.' She just went to get a husband. And when she found old Dennis Kent, the loser of her choice, she dropped out of school and married him. But still, I always have to hear about how great Chelsea's life is and when am I ever going to get married and have kids, my mother won't be around forever, you know, and she'd like to meet her grandchildren, and blah blah-blah blah-blah." Miss Fairfax raised her eyebrows at Holmes. "See what I have to put up with?"

Holmes merely shook his head.

"But whatever. Paris and London can't help their mother. I love those girls to death."

Holmes could tell than Miss Fairfax was still uptight after ranting about her sister, so he tried to lighten the conversation.

"Paris Francine and London Brittany. I wonder what her next child will be called? Oslo Norway, perhaps?"

Miss Fairfax giggled, which made Holmes smile.

"Maybe Athens Greece," she suggested with a laugh.

"Or Brussels Belgium."

"Or Cairo Egypt."

"Or Copenhagen Denmark."

"Ooh, I think you won there," Miss Fairfax laughed. Holmes grinned.

"I daresay that I did."

"Fajitas are done," Miss Fairfax announced. She carried a steaming bowl of chicken and those damned peppers over to the table and set it down. She then pulled out a package of flat bread, and, pulling out a piece of said flat bread, she proceeded to pile the chicken, peppers, onions, and other various vegetables inside.

"Here's how you make a fajita. Now eat it," she instructed, handing Holmes the fajita. Holmes reluctantly took it in his hand and warily took a bite.

"This is a very, um, interesting dish," Holmes answered honestly, prompted by Miss Fairfax's expression. She sighed.

"You're a picky eater, aren't you?" she said, preparing another fajita for herself. "What on earth did your mother ever do with you growing up?"

Holmes shrugged. "Actually, I never knew my mother. But I do not think that I was a particular problem for the cook when I was a child."

"You never knew your mother?" Miss Fairfax asked sadly. "Oh, that's so sad. I'm sorry. If you don't mind my asking, what exactly happened to her?"

"She died in childbirth."

"Yours, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," Miss Fairfax said again. "Let's talk about something happier, shall we?"


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Need I say it? I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Seven

It was Monday morning, which pretty much translated to "Sian needs to wake up at five-thirty in the morning." Groan. Sian really hated Mondays. When she was younger, she always had thought that when she was grown up and a teacher herself, she'd get over her distaste for the first day of the week, but no; even at twenty-three, Sian still loathed Mondays.

As Sian was making an omelet for herself, she remembered how helpless Holmes was in the kitchen. After eating her own food, she hastily prepared some breakfast some him as well. She covered his plate with a bowl to keep it hot, and then thought, _If I'm going through all this trouble to make him breakfast, the least he could do is eat it while it's hot._

She padded down the hallways and stole into his room—funny how she thought of it as _his_ room, rather than the guest room—and looked at Holmes. He was curled up on his side, with only his neck-up showing from under the covers. Sian's hand hovered over his shoulder before she mustered the courage to wake him.

"_Sherlock_. Sherlock!" Holmes opened an eye at her.

"Hmmpph?" he grumbled, still half-asleep.

"Sherlock, I'm going to work now. I made you breakfast; it's sitting on the table. You should get up soon if you want to eat it hot."

"Mmm. 'Enk-oo," Holmes mumbled into the pillow, which Sian took to mean "thank you."

"Good-bye, then," Sian said over her shoulder as she left.

Holmes lay in his bed in a near stupor for several minutes after Miss Fairfax left. When he was only about a quarter-awake, he wondered again why Miss Fairfax had been in his room in the first place. When he was more than half-awake, he remembered, and reddened at the thought of the caveman grunts he had given her. Holmes cursed himself. The morning was not his most flattering time of day.

Holmes managed to drag himself out of bed and head to the kitchen. Even before he got there, he could smell the aroma of hot breakfast food. There was a plate covered by an upside-down bowl on the table. He lifted the bowl and saw scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. He smiled, relieved; normal breakfast fare. He noticed a note next to his plate:

_Hey you—_

_Knowing how helpless you are in the kitchen, I also made you lunch; there's a chicken Caesar salad in the fridge. Help yourself to anything else, as long as it doesn't require cooking. I really don't want to come home this afternoon to a bunch of fire trucks and a pile of smoldering ashes where my house used to be._

—_S_

Holmes smiled at the note, in spite of himself. Could it be that he was getting used to Miss Fairfax's dry and often sarcastic sense of humor? Possibly.

As Holmes was sitting down to enjoy his breakfast, he noticed something else on the table; it was that thing that Miss Fairfax had wanted to show to her English class. A VCR, was it? A DVD, or a CD? Or maybe an MP3? Holmes clenched at his hair; God damn it, this century had far too many acronyms for his taste. Well, whatever it was called, Holmes knew that Miss Fairfax had wanted it. Ugh, that meant that _he _had to take it to her. Holmes felt a wave of nostalgia for his own time and place – and not for the first time. Had he been at Baker Street, he could have gotten one of his Baker Street Irregulars to deliver the blasted thing for only a tuppence. But, no matter.

He hastily dressed himself and found an extra house key before he set off, with the _All Quiet on the Western Front_ insert various letters here tucked safely under his arm. Holmes knew generally where Miss Fairfax's school was; she had pointed it out to him when she took him shopping, only two days ago.

_Two days ago?_ Holmes realized with a start. Why, his stay in the twenty-first century had seemed much longer than that!

Eventually, Holmes made it to the high school. He approached the front door, and was surprised to find it locked. He looked around for a push-bell, found a small button, and pressed it. He heard the doors click open and he walked inside. He was in an open vestibule, with two door on either side of him. Through a window, he saw a woman behind one door beckon him. He obliged.

"May I help you, sir?" the woman—obviously a secretary—asked in a nasally voice.

"Um, yes. Could you please direct me to Miss Fairfax's classroom? She left something at home."

"What did she leave?" the secretary asked nosily. Holmes, who was still at a loss for the name of the blasted thing, simply held it up. "And who might you be?" she asked.

"John Sigerson," Holmes answered, remembering that the name "Sherlock Holmes" was widely believed to be that of a fictional character. Nonsense. "I am Miss Fairfax's neighbor, and she left this at my house yesterday. I remembered that she wanted to show this to the children today, so I thought I'd bring it in."

"Hmmm…." The secretary said in a bored tone.

"So, may I take it up to her?" Holmes asked, rapidly losing patience with the woman.

"I guess so. Just sign your name in that book."

Holmes quickly dashed out _John Sigerson_ in the guest book.

"What room did you say that Miss Fairfax was in, again?" Holmes asked.

"Um…." The secretary said helpfully, whipping out a large directory. "Fairfax… Fairfax… Room 216."

"Thank you," Holmes said stiffly, bowing slightly.

---

"Good morning, all!" Sian said to her students as they filed in the room for first period.

The general responses were groans, reminiscent of Holmes's earlier that morning, but a few more chipper students managed a cheery smile accompanied with a "'Morning, Miss Fairfax!"

"Okay, guys, you are in for a real treat today," Sian said. "I thought that, as a fun, ease-back-into-the-school-week thing, we should watch the fantastic black-and-white, 1932 version of _All Quiet on the Western Front_!" Sian examined the expressionless faces in her classroom. "I certainly hope that you guys are just tired, and not bored at the prospect of watching a thrilling movie."

Sian moved over to her desk and rummaged through her tote bag for the DVD. "Um," she said. "Or maybe we won't be watching a thrilling movie." She stole a glance at her students, who were looking rather distressed now. "Oh, I see how it is," she said. "Um, guys, I guess we'll have to watch it another time." _Damn!_ she thought. _I have no lessons plan, either. Time to improvise…._

"Um, I guess we'll just get a head start on our next unit, which would be the Russian Revolution." Sian went over to her in-class bookshelf and pulled down a well-worn book. "And to study it, we will be reading George Orwell's _Animal Farm_. Now, during the Russian Revolution…."

Sian was interrupted by a knocking at the door. She turned her head over to the door. Holmes's face was in the window. "Sherlock!" she cried out, and opened the door.

"Hey," he said in a low voice, handing her the DVD. "You left this at home."

"Oh?" Sian glanced down at the DVD. "Ooh!" she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "Sherlock, you are my hero!" She broke away, and turned towards her class. "Class, this is Sherlock…." She paused.

"Sherlock Sigerson," Holmes finished for her. "I'm Miss Fairfax's neighbor."

"And our rescuer, since he brought in the DVD that I forgot."

"You left it at my house," Holmes reminded her.

"Ah. Well, silly me. Thanks a lot Sherlock. See you later."

"Good day," he said, bowing his head.

When he left, Sian turned to face her class.

"What a nice guy he is," she said graciously.

One student sniggered. "His name is Sherlock?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, I know, just like Sherlock Holmes," Sian said. "Isn't that awful?"

"He even_ looked _like Sherlock Holmes," another (and particularly well-read) student pointed out. "Tall, beak-like nose, black hair. Does he have gray eyes?"

Sian considered, remembering how she got lost in his piercing gray orbs. "Yes," she said slowly. "As a matter of fact, he _does_ have gray eyes."

As her class was more-or-less enthralled in the movie, it couldn't keep Sian's attention. All she could think about was a certain pair of gray eyes, dancing in her mind.

When her lunch break finally arrived, instead of heading down to the teacher's lounge, like she normally did, Sian instead all-but ran over to her bookcase and pulled down two thick books; _Sherlock Holmes: the Complete Novels and Stories_, volumes one and two.

As she was paging furiously through the books, another teacher poked his head inside her classroom.

"Hey," he said. "Aren't you coming down to lunch?"

"Ugh, not today, Paul," she said. "I've got a lot to do today, so I thought I'd work through my lunch period."

Paul shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "See you later then, Sian."

"Bye, Paul," Sian said absently. But truly, Sian wasn't in her classroom during her lunch period; she found herself in London, 1881, when Dr. Watson first met a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes….

_My_, she thought. _This_ _description does sound awfully familiar_. And the saddest part was that, while rereading _a Study in Scarlet_, Sian found herself imagining the hero looking an awful lot like a certain guest of hers….

Suddenly inspired and curious, Sian uploaded her computer and went onto Google.

_I'll figure this out somehow…._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: My, these certainly get old fast. I still do not Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Eight

Holmes was playing the violin when Sian rushed through the front door, later that afternoon. Holmes noticed that Miss Fairfax was holding two remarkably thick books in her hand. When he caught sight of the name "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle" on the spines of the books, he knew that something was up.

"Okay Sherlock," Sian said as she unceremoniously plopped herself on the couch next to him. "We are going to prove once and for all that you are not Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes gave Sian a _look_, which made her squirm uncomfortably in her seat. "You still don't believe me, then?"

"No."

"Then why do you call me 'Sherlock'?" he wanted to know.

"Um…." Sian said.

"Ah-ha."

"It's not because I believe you," Sian rushed to say. "Because I don't. I just call you Sherlock for, uh, lack of a better name."

"Ah. I see."

"I have with me everything that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who was _not_ Dr. John H. Watson, ever wrote about Sherlock Holmes," Sian announced, waving the heavy books around. Holmes sincerely hoped that she would drop one on her foot, she was _such _an inconvenience.

"So, what are you going to do? Quiz me?" Holmes asked mockingly.

"Actually, yes, I am." Sian settled herself into her seat. "What is your address?"

"221B Baker Street."

"That was an easy one," Sian dismissed airily. "Anyone would know that. Describe 221B Baker Street."

"It's a flat that Watson and I share. It's on the first floor, above a flight of seventeen steps."

"Hmm," Sian murmured. That was correct. Not many people knew the whole 17 step bit. She turned a page in her book, scanning for another question.

"What's your brother's name?" Sian demanded. Scarcely anyone knew his name, let alone that Sherlock Holmes _had_ a brother.

"Which brother?"

"What do you mean _which brother?_ _Your _brother!"

"Miss Fairfax, I have two brothers. And as I cannot, in fact, read your mind, I do not know of which you are speaking," Holmes said coolly.

"Oh. I guess both of their names, then."

"My brothers' names are Sherrinford and Mycroft."

_Sherrinford?_ Sian held back a bark of laughter. Then again, _Mycroft_ was no gem either, never mind _Sherlock_.

"Ah. Tell me about your brothers."

"Sherrinford is nine years my elder. He maintains Holmes Manor in Yorkshire."

"And Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is seven years my elder. He resides in London, and is a member of the Diogenes Club."

"Out of all the Holmes brothers, who is best at deduction?" Sian asked, trying to play on his ego. Most anybody would say Sherlock was the better detective.

"Why, my brother Mycroft, of course."

Sian was at a loss. "Ugh!" she groaned, tossing the books on the floor. Suddenly, she thought of it; the one thing that would prove Holmes's lie, or misconception, or whatever. Something that he wouldn't have to say, but would have to have on his body….

Sian, like a striking snake, grabbed Holmes's wrist and thrust his sleeve to his elbow. And she saw what she hadn't expected to see; dozens upon dozens of small needle pricks, going up and down Holmes's arm, nothing that would be noticed, unless being looked for. Those needle pricks where from Holmes's syringe. From his cocaine addiction. And Sian knew it.

"_Ahh!"_ Sian shrieked, and, in one fluid motion, she threw his arm away and leapt from the sofa. "Oh my God, you really are him!"

Holmes stiffly rolled his sleeve back down to his wrist. He said, "I am sorry that that is what it took for you to finally believe me. I wish the deciding factor had been one of my strengths, rather than my weakness."

Sian scarcely heard a word of it. She just kept saying, "Oh my God, it's you. You're him. You're Sherlock Holmes."

"So you believe me now?" he asked softly.

Sian shook her head. "God help me, I do."

---

"So how did you end up in my time?" Sian asked quietly that night. Holmes and Sian were both on the couch. The television was on, but muted; Sian didn't have the heart to watch any insipid, melodramatic sitcoms that night, and Holmes, to tell the truth, couldn't stomach them anyway.

"Well," Holmes said slowly, "it happened when I went to investigate Moriarty's flat. I suspected that he was up to no good, and I wanted to stop him.

"Watson and I were standing in the alleyway along side the building. The lights were doused, so we assumed that no one was at home. That's about when we saw the mysterious blue light." Sian shivered, though she wasn't sure if it was from the cold night air through the open window or Holmes's narrative. Whatever caused the shiver, Sian wrapped the blanket tightly around her.

"I left Watson in the alleyway so I could poke about inside. I went around to the back, and was surprised to find the door unlock. I didn't realize that anyone was behind me, until it was too late," Holmes said dramatically.

"What did he do?" Sian asked breathlessly.

"Bashed me over the head," Holmes said, not without some humor. Sian swatted him on the arm.

"Hey!" Holmes said, mock-defensively.

"Finish telling your story," Sian instructed.

"Very well. Well, as I said, Moriarty bashed me over the head and knocked me unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was in a patch of grass in an unfamiliar place. The first thing I noticed was this contraption strapped to my arm. I can only guess that that is how Moriarty was able to transfer me here. I immediately removed the blasted thing, and started to wander about, trying to get my bearings. I didn't realize at first that I wasn't in London, or in 1884. But very quickly, I noticed things that didn't exist. Cars were the most obvious. I then ducked into the first public building that I could find, which happened to be the library." Holmes smiled humorlessly. "And, well, you know the rest from there."

"Why on earth would Moriarty want to send you forward in time?" Sian wondered aloud.

"I think that is obvious, Miss Fairfax. He wanted to get rid of me, and I'd say he did so remarkably well."

"But why go through all the trouble of building a WABAC Machine? Wouldn't it've been just be easier to simply kill you?"

"Of course. But Moriarty must have other plans for his contraption than to merely get rid of me."

"I hadn't thought of that," Sian said as she leaned her head against the back of the couch. Holmes settled into the couch, contemplative.

"What are you going to do?" Sian whispered. Holmes merely shook his head.

"I—I don't know, Miss Fairfax," he said, brokenly. "I'm at a loss. I've never been unsure of myself, never in my entire life."

Sian considered. Her eyes were beginning to feel heavy, but she refused to succumb to slumber quite yet. "Sherlock," she said, "I'll help you. As long as you need me, I promise to take care of you."

Holmes smiled sleepily. He, too, was in danger of falling asleep. "Thank you, Miss Fairfax."

"You don't need to call me that, you know," Sian said after a pause.

"What?"

" 'Miss Fairfax.' Just my first name will do."

"And that won't be improper?"

"No."

Holmes nodded. "Very well, then."

"_Sian."_

"…Sian."

They both fell asleep on the couch.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Although I don't own Holmes, I do own Sian, Chelsea, Paris, and London.

And thank you Susicar for all of your encouraging reviews!

Chapter Nine

The next Saturday, Sian was awakened by the shrill ring of the telephone. Groggily, Sian wiped the sleep out of her eyes and looked at the clock. Seven fifty-eight. Sian groaned. No man's land. _She_ wasn't even sure if that was within the bounds of Polite Calling Time. Probably not for a Saturday, but Sian was awake now, so she figured she might as well answer the phone.

"Hello?" Sian croaked into the phone. Gosh darn it, she hated talking right after she woke up; she always sounded like she had swallowed a frog!

"Hey, Sian, it's me!" the all-too chipper voice on the other end chirped. Sian groaned inwardly; only one person in the entire world could call this early in the morning and have the nerve to sound peppy.

"Hi, Chelsea," Sian managed weakly.

"Listen, Sianny, I have a favor to ask you." Big surprise.

"Oh?"

"Yes! You see, there's been an emergency at work, and I need to go in right away."

"Chelsea, you're a lingerie buyer. What kind of emergency could you possibly have?"

"Debbie's in the hospital today, and I need to go in and cover for her."

"Oh, and why's Debbie in the hospital? Emergency rhinoplasty?"

"No. She's getting her stomach pumped. She had some bad shrimp."

"Oh, charming." _Why would anyone eat shrimp this early?_ Sian wanted to ask, but didn't. Knowing Debbie (as Sian unfortunately did), anything was possible.

"All this is well and good, but why are you telling me all this?" Sian asked.

"I need you to watch the girls for me while I'm working."

"Chelsea! What about Dennis? Why doesn't he watch them?"

"I don't know where he is," Chelsea admitted.

Sian wasn't sure whether groan or roll her eyes. "How do you not know where your own husband is?"

"I'm not my husband's keeper," Chelsea said primly. _Maybe strangulation through the telephone?_

"Isn't that what a wife is?"

Chelsea ignored her. "Just please say you'll watch them, Sianny? I won't be gone too long; Cynthia will relieve me by three, at the _very_ latest!"

"Hmmm."

"And you know how much the girls love you! Paris even asked when they were going to see their Aunt Sian again." Sian felt her resolve breaking down. She loved those girls.

"Well…" Sian said. "I suppose I can watch them. But only—"

"Thanks so much, Sianny!" Chelsea cut her off. "I'll be right over, then!"

"Chelsea—"

"Bye!" Chelsea hung up, leaving Sian with the buzzing telephone in her hand.

---

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up!"

"Hmmm?" Holmes rolled over on his side, only to see Miss Fairfax—no, Sian—at his bedside.

"Sherlock, wake up. My nieces will be over soon."

Holmes sat up. "What?" he asked. Miss Fairfax—no, _Sian!_—groaned, perching on the edge of his bed. Holmes quickly drew his feet in, so as they would not accidentally touch her.

"My sister has some sort of work related emergency, so I volunteered to watch the girls. And by 'volunteer,' I mean that she forced them on me." Sian laughed humorlessly.

"So you want me to get dressed so they don't think that I'm staying here?" Holmes guessed.

"That's the plan."

"Ah. Well, in that case, I'll be right up."

"Stellar," Sian said dryly, wondering how the day would go.

---

By the time Holmes was ready, Sian's little nieces had already arrived. He could most definitely see a family resemblance. What was most noticeable was that both girls had the golden blonde hair of their aunt, but they also shared some of Sian's facial features as well. Holmes, who had never seen Chelsea before, could only assume that she and Sian must be quite similar in appearance, if not personalities.

Sian was sitting on the floor with her nieces. When she heard Holmes enter the living room, she turned around and smiled up at him.

"Paris, London, I want you to say 'hi' to my friend, Mr. Holmes," Sian said. The youngest girl looked up at him shyly, but the older girl waved at him.

"Hi!" she said. "My name is Paris. I'm four." Paris pointed at her sister. "That's my baby sister, London. She's two. She still sucks her thumb," she added conspiringly.

"Ah," Holmes said. Being the youngest child, he had never really experienced being around small children before. He stood uncomfortably.

"Want to see my new Barbie?" Paris offered.

"Um, well—"

"I think that Mr. Holmes wants to read," Sian rushed to say. "But why don't you show me your new Barbie?"

Holmes gave Sian a grateful look and she laughed silently at him. Meanwhile, Paris dragged her small suitcase filled with her extensive Barbie wardrobe over to her aunt. She opened it and pulled out a doll.

"This is my new Barbie," she said, holding her up to her aunt. "Her name is Princess Genevieve."

"That is quite a name," Sian said admiringly.

"She's from _Barbie in the Twelve Dancing Princesses_," Paris explained. "Have you seen that movie?"

"No, I'm afraid I haven't yet."

"Well, I'm going to ask Santa for it for Christmas. You can watch it then."

Sian laughed. "Okay, I will."

"Let's play Barbies," Paris said decidedly. "I'll be Princess Genevieve and London will be Princess Fallon. We don't have anymore Twelve Dancing Princesses dolls for you, Aunt Sian," Paris added regrettably.

"What about her?" Sian said, picking up a blonde doll in a puffy pink gown.

"That's Princess Anneliese!" Paris laughed. "She's from _the Princess and the Pauper_!"

"Ah, I see. Well, we can just pretend that Anneliese is visiting Genevieve and Fallon from the neighboring kingdom."

"Yeah!" Paris exclaimed. "They can be going to a ball!"

So Sian and Paris began playing Barbies.

"London?" Sian said to the two-year-old, who was currently sucking on poor Princess Fallon's feet. "Why don't you make your doll dance?" Obligingly, London made her doll hop up and down next to Paris's doll.

Holmes was sitting on the couch. He was pretending to read his book, but was in actuality watching Sian play with her nieces. He couldn't help but smile at the high-pitched voice that Sian used for the doll she was playing with. Every time he saw Sian's head turning towards him, he'd duck his face back behind his book, so that she wouldn't see that he was staring at her, never mind smiling at her.

"So, what should we do now, Princess Genevieve?" Sian squeaked out for her doll. "I think I've danced my feet off!"

"I don't know, Princess Anneliese," Paris said, trying to mimic her aunt's voice.

"Well, one thing is for sure. I think that Princess Fallon needs a pedicure!" Sian quipped, as Fallon's feet had found their way back into London's mouth. Paris laughed at her sister's expense.

Holmes smiled again as he watched Sian's interaction with the girls. _My,_ he thought, _she will make an awfully good mother one day_. Holmes couldn't help but wonder who the father might be. God bless the man who'd win the stubborn Miss Fairfax's heart.

"We need somebody to be Prince Derek," Paris suddenly announced in her normal voice. She turned around and tugged on Holmes's pant leg. "Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "Wanna play Prince Derek?"

"Um, well, that is—" Holmes began.

"Oh, honey, I don't think Mr. Holmes wants to play," Sian said. "He's a boy, and boys don't like Barbies. And anyway, he's reading."

Before he knew it, Paris was next to Holmes on the couch, veering to glance at the pages of his book. "Whatcha reading?" she asked.

Holmes was reading a book on forensic science that Sian had picked up for him over the week. The book was riddled with pictures fingerprints, mug shots, and most notably, crime scenes. The page that Holmes was on featured a photograph of a particularly bloody crime scene. Holmes quickly snapped the book shut.

"Nothing that a little girl would want to read," he said decidedly.

"Does it have pictures?"

"Um. No."

"Can I see it anyway?" Paris pestered.

"No."

"Paris, honey, he isn't reading Dr. Seuss. You're really not missing anything," Sian said. She snapped her fingers, as if an idea had just struck her. "I know! Why don't you go get some of your books, and we can read them?" Paris nodded and went to retrieve some of her books. Sian joined Holmes on the couch.

"Close one, eh?" she asked, smiling. Holmes just raised an eyebrow at her.

Paris came back, clutching a blue paperback book to her chest.

"Will you please read this to me, Mr. Holmes?" Paris said, with the kind of charm that only a four-year-old can possess.

"Um…." He looked to Sian to rescue him again, but Sian's eyes danced.

"Yeah, go ahead and read it!" Sian said merrily. She pulled London up from the carpet and plopped her on her lap. "Read to us, Mr. Holmes!" she laughed.

Holmes gave Sian as evil as a glance as he could. Sian merely smiled. Holmes sighed, opened the book, and began to read.

"_Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys, and Their Monkey Business,_" he began. Holmes continued on with the story, describing a peddler who sold caps that he carried on his head. On one particularly bad selling day, the peddler took a walk in the country and, finding a large tree, decided to take a nap underneath it. When the peddler awoke, he discovered that all of his caps were missing. When he looked up in the tree, he saw that there were monkeys on all of the branches, and each monkey was wearing one of his caps.

" 'You monkeys, you! Give me back my caps!' " Holmes read. Paris and London giggled. Holmes smiled, in spite of himself. "But the monkeys just said, 'Tsk tsk tsk!' "

Paris shook her head sadly. "Mr. Holmes," she said. "You didn't read that right."

"What do you mean?" he countered, forgetting that he was talking to a four-year-old. "I read that exactly out of the book! That's what it says right here!" He pointed at the obvious "tsk tsk tsk" on the page.

Paris still shook her head. "You didn't say it right. Did he, Aunt Sian?"

Sian shook her head. "I'm afraid that she's right, Mr. Holmes. You didn't say it right."

"But, Miss Fairfax!" he said, frustrated. "It's written right there. On. The. Page." Holmes punctuated each word with a thrust of his finger on the page.

Paris looked up at her aunt. "Aunt Sian? Would you please say it?" she asked pitifully.

"Of course, honey," Sian said sympathetically. " 'You monkeys, you! Give me back my caps!' But the monkeys just said, _'tschi tschi tschi tschi tschi tschi tschi!'_ " Sian tickled the girls on the stomachs as she chattered on with her monkey noise, which, even Holmes had to grudgingly admit, was a better monkey noise than "tsk tsk tsk."


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Still not mine

Chapter 10

At about noon, Sian went to the kitchen to make some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Holmes and the girls trailed behind.

"Mr. Holmes?" Paris asked. "Are you Aunt Sian's _boyfriend_?"

From the kitchen, Sian laughed. "No, sweetie," she answered for him, which relived Holmes. "Mr. Holmes is just a friend who's visiting."

"Oh." Paris considered this. "Where are you from? 'Cause you talk really funny."

"Paris!" Sian chastised. "That was very rude of you! Apologize to Mr. Holmes!"

"I'm sorry."

"That's alright," Holmes said uncomfortably. "And to answer your question, I am from England, so I have a British accent."

"Okay," Paris said, as if she understood.

"Mr. Holmes is actually from London," Sian said as she was de-crusting the sandwiches.

Paris's eyes lit up. "Really?" she asked. "Just like my sister?"

"Just like your sister."

"Have you ever been to Paris?" she asked excitedly, toying with her necklace.

"I have, once," Holmes said.

"Did you see the Eiffel Tower?" she asked, nearly bouncing up and down in excitement.

"The what?" Holmes asked.

At first, Sian was dumbfounded. How could someone not know the Eiffel Tower? But then it clicked; Holmes was from 1884. The Eiffel Tower wouldn't be even started until 1887. Not for the first time that day, Sian came to his rescue.

"You know, Sherlock, the Eiffel Tower. As in, the famous tower in Paris that has now become the symbol of France, which was completed in 1889," Sian said, vigorously nodding her head up and down. _Say yes, just say yes._

Holmes took the hint. "Oh, of course! _That_ Eiffel Tower. Of course I saw it."

"I have a necklace of it," Paris informed him. "Wanna see it?" She held the little charm out as far as the chain would allow. Holmes bent over to see what this blasted tower was all about.

"Very nice," Holmes said.

"Sandwiches are ready!" Sian announced, and Paris and London rushed to the table.

"What's so special about that tower?" Holmes asked under his breath as the girls were happily munching on their sandwiches. "It looked quite ordinary to me."

"Well, besides the fact that it's very beautiful…." Sian said. Holmes rolled his eyes. "It's going to be the tallest building in the world for you. Nothing will be taller till the 1930's, when the Chrysler Building in New York is built."

"You seem to know an awful lot about architecture," Holmes said dryly. "I though books were your passion."

"I went to France and England after I graduated from college," Sian explained. "That was the summer of 2004, so not too long ago. In France, I went to the Eiffel Tower. The tour guide told us that, and I just remembered."

"Ah." Sian hoped fervently that Holmes wouldn't ask her what she did in London. She'd be far too embarrassed to admit that she went to the Sherlock Holmes museum at Baker Street. She blushed slightly at the thought. Holmes, who noticed the blush, didn't say anything.

"Sandwich, Mr. Holmes?" Sian offered when they joined the girls at the table.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Fairfax," he said, taking the proffered, sticky sandwich.

Paris, who had been watching the exchange, asked, "Why'd he call you 'Miss Fairfax'?"

"Because that's my name, dear," Sian said, wiping the jelly from London's fingers.'

"Your name is Aunt Sian," Paris corrected.

"Ah, but she's not my aunt," Holmes pointed out.

"That's right. And Fairfax is my last name, sweetheart, just like Kent is your last name. Your name is Paris Francine Kent, and my name is Sian Elisabeth Fairfax. Got it?"

"Then why doesn't he just call you Sian?" Paris asked, puzzled.

"Because Mr. Holmes has very good manners. Now, finish your milk, and you can have some Oreos for dessert."

---

When it was nearing three o'clock, Chelsea's promised time of return, Sian was a little more than anxious. After nine Dr. Seuss books, an hour of Nick Jr., and five games of Chutes and Ladders, Sian was ready for her nieces to go home.

When it was 3:30, Sian figured that Chelsea must have hit some traffic.

When it was four o'clock, Sian was running out of things to do, and if she heard the Blue's Clues theme song one more time, she was going to rip her hair out.

Finally, at five o'clock, Sian lost her patience and decided to call Chelsea.

"Hello?" Chelsea said in her fakey phone-voice.

"Chelsea, it's Sian."

"Oh, hi Sian," Chelsea said, returning to her normal voice. "What's wrong?"

"Um, apparently your watch, because you're two hours late to pick up your daughters."

"Oh, is it after three already? Oh, yeah, I guess it is. Wow, time flies, doesn't it?"

_Actually, my day kinda dragged on_, Sian thought, but she said, "Yeah, sure. When will you be here to get the girls?"

"Ah, Sianny," Chelsea said, "they still need me to work. I'll be there to pick them up eventually."

"What time?"

"What?"

"What time will you be here to pick them up?"

"Well, they need to me work till about six, and if I hit traffic on the way home… I guess I can try to shoot for seven."

"_Seven?"_ Sian shrieked.

"Yeah, seven," Chelsea said. She was beginning to sound angry. "And what's the big deal, anyway? It's not like you do anything."

Sian had been trying to be good. God help her, she had tried her very hardest. But as soon as those words escaped from her sister's lips, she snapped.

"Oh, I don't do anything, do I?" Sian asked nastily. "Well, you're right. I don't do anything. _Except raise your daughters for you!_ While you've been out, gallivanting all day, with your good-for-nothing husband getting drunk God-knows-where, I've been home all day. Baby-sitting. Because I was too kind to say 'no.' And you want to know why, Chelsea? Because I love those girls, dammit, and you take advantage of that. So next time you're searching for favors, Chelsea, you'd better look elsewhere first. I'm sick of you always inconveniencing me!"

"Sianny, I—"

Sian slammed the phone down, the beep clicking away Chelsea's voice. She turned around and saw Holmes standing behind her.

"I took the girls outside to play," he said, "when it looked like you were getting angry with their mother."

Sian glanced behind her, and through the sliding glass door, she could see Paris and London—all bundled up in their pink winter coats, no less—playing on the swing set that Sian had gotten especially for them when she bought the house.

"Thanks, Sherlock," she said, hugging him around his chest. "Good instincts. I owe you."

Holmes, who had gone stiff from the embrace, merely chuckled nervously. "Well," he said, "it's the least I could do, considering how many times you rescued me today." It was Sian's turn to laugh.

Sian eventually released Holmes from his bondage. "When is your sister coming?" he asked. Sian groaned.

"Seven, or so she says." She sighed. "Well, get your coat, I guess. We'll go out for dinner."

"Where are we going?" Holmes asked, but Sian didn't hear him. She was already opening up the back door and shouting, "Come inside, girls! We're going to McDonald's!"

Holmes didn't take the girls' extreme enthusiasm for this "McDonald's" place to be a good sign.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: No, I have not gotten sudden custody of Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Eleven

"When's my mommy comin' back?" Paris asked from the backseat as they were driving to McDonald's.

"That's a very good question, Paris," Sian said. "And it's a question that I do not know the answer to." After a small stretch of silence, Sian asked, "Why? Do you miss her?"

"No, not really," Paris replied. "I have more fun with you, Aunt Sian." Sian gave Holmes a knowing look.

"Thank you, honey. I have fun when you come over, too." They soon pulled up to a building. The first thing that Holmes noticed about the place was the large, golden "M" sign that hovered above the roof. The second thing was that it appeared to be extremely crowded, judging by the number of cars surrounding the establishment. Holmes took this to be encouraging. Surely, if such a place was so popular, it must have good food.

But Holmes was let down when they actually entered the place. The air smelled foul, the floors looked a little less than clean, and there were screaming children and shouting parents everywhere.

Holmes followed behind as Sian and the girls stood at the end of the line. Why, he had never stood in line for food in his entire life! Truly, this seemed to be more like a soup kitchen then anything!

"What kind of restaurant is this?" Holmes muttered into Sian's ear. Sian looked up and him and smirked.

"It's called 'fast food.' Cheap, convenient, and best of all, the girls love it."

"Ah." Holmes still wasn't impressed.

The line was very long, and after about two minutes of waiting, Paris and London lost their patience, and dashed off to admire the toys they might get inside their Happy Meal.

"Be careful, girls," Sian called after them. In front of them in line, a little old woman turned around and smiled.

"Such a lovely family," she said kindly. "You two have such adorable daughters."

"Oh, they're not—Oof!" Holmes began, just as Sian elbowed him in the stomach and said sweetly, "Thank you." The women turned around to order her food.

Holmes gave Sian a quizzical glance as he was rubbing his injured stomach. "What?" she asked.

"First of all, you have extremely pointy elbows." Sian laughed and patted his stomach.

"Better?" she asked jokingly.

"Hardly. And second of all, they're not our daughters. Why didn't you say so?"

"Oh, lighten up, Sherlock," Sian said. "She meant it as a compliment. Besides, saying 'thank you' was a whole lot shorter than saying 'oh, no, they're not our daughters; they're my nieces. And we're not married; we're not even dating, in fact. He's just a friend.' " Sian ticked off each word with a finger as she spoke. "Look," she said. "That was 23 words. I saved myself from saying 21 of them simply by saying 'thank you.' "

"Hmmm," was all Holmes said in response.

After Sian ordered their food, she carried the tray as the girls led the way to the tables in the indoor Play Place.

The girls quickly gobbled down their chicken McNuggets and fries, left their shoes under the table, and ran off to jump in the ball pit.

"And people enjoy this place because…?" Holmes asked.

"You're a stick in the mud," Sian informed him through her mouthful of Big Mac. "It's a fun place. What could be better than this greasy food with all its artery-clogging goodness? And we mustn't forget the Play Place," Sian added, waving, fry in hand, at the monstrous multi-colored structure towering above them.

"Well, you must really love your nieces if you'd suffer through this for them," Holmes noted. "This room smells like… what is that?"

"Plastic. I know. It's heinous. But they like it in here; closer to the jungle gym thinger, so whatever."

Sian looked off into space, absently drumming her fingers against the table. Holmes, before he knew what he was doing, put his hand on top of hers.

"Sian," he said. "You obviously love those girls tremendously. You are a great aunt."

Sian smiled slightly. "You really think so?"

"Yes," Holmes assured her. "And don't let your sister make you think otherwise."

Sian's smile grew. "Thanks, Sherlock."

---

Chelsea still wasn't back by seven, and by eight, Paris and London, who had both had very long days, fell asleep on the couch.

"I wish I had their pajamas with me," Sian mused as she scooped London into her arms. "Sherlock, would you mind grabbing Paris for me?" Holmes obliged. "I guess we can just lay them in my bed until Chelse gets here," Sian decided. Holmes shook his head.

"No," he argued. "When they stayed here before I was ever in the picture, they must have stayed in my room. Therefore, that is where they will go now."

"Don't worry about it. My room will be fine."

"No, I insist."

"Ugh!" Sian stalked into her own bedroom, certain that Holmes would follow. She tucked London in, and was surprised to see that Holmes was not behind her. She peeked into his room, and was touched to see him tucking Paris into his own bed.

Sian had been planning on teasing him and calling him a jerk for not following her instructions, but somehow, that tender tableau changed her mind.

They both returned to the living room and collapsed on the couch.

"So," Sian said.

"So," Holmes agreed.

"Wanna play Barbies?" Sian asked. "I'll even let you be Princess Genevieve." Holmes laughed.

"No, I think I'll pass on the pleasure."

They both must have dozed off on the sofa, because at quarter till twelve, Sian and Holmes were startled out of their sleep by a pounding on the door.

"It's Chelsea," Sian said through a yawn. Holmes nodded, and retreated into the kitchen. He had no desire to see Sian's Gorgon of a sister anyway.

The two sisters were surprisingly silent, Holmes noted, although the tension in the room was so thick, one could practically cut it with a knife. Holmes flinched slightly, unconsciously stroking the fine scar on his finger. It'd heal eventually.

Soon enough, Sian retrieved Holmes from the kitchen.

"All clear," she greeted.

"That's a relief," Holmes said.

"I think I'm heading to bed. And I intend to sleep long into the morning. Mind if we skip breakfast and go straight to lunch tomorrow?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not at all. A little extra sleep sounds good right about now."

"Well, in that case, good-night, Sherlock."

"Good-night, Sian."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, but Sian and Paul and Megan are.

Chapter Twelve

"Hi, Sian. Have a minute?"

It was the last day of November. The students had long since left school, with only a few sports teams and other clubs still lingering in the building. In her classroom, Sian had been changing her Thanksgiving-themed calendar to a winter one, more appropriate for December. The voice had interrupted Sian's train of thought. She turned to look at the speaker, whose figure she could see looming in her doorway. It was Paul Livingston.

Paul Livingston was a fellow teacher of hers at the high school. The teachers at the school seemed annoyingly cliquish to Sian, with the math teachers only hanging out with other math teachers, and history teachers only hanging out with other history teachers. Sian herself was guilty of being cliquish, though. Why, that very day at lunch, she had discussed the merits of Byron, Blake, Burns, and all the other romantic poets with the rest of her department over chicken salad.

But Paul was an oddity. He was a science teacher, but he managed to be friendly with every other department in the school. He was a young and likeable guy, with the kind of looks that would make Megan swoon. Blue-eyed, blonde, and handsome was Megan's ideal, although not necessarily Sian's.

Paul was the science teacher that all the students raved about. His classroom experiments included making bottle rockets, playing with liquid nitrogen, and lately, robot building. A science nerd at heart, he was the advisor for the Science Olympiad team, but he did try to make his subject interesting for all of the non-scientists in his class which, had Sian still been in high school, would have included her.

"Oh, hey Paul," Sian said breezily as she stapled another snowflake on her corkboard.

"Hey, I was wondering… do you have any plans over the weekend?" Sian didn't think anything of the question; Paul was just the sort of guy who asked those kinds of questions.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm going to watch a movie with my one friend tomorrow night—" which pretty much translated to _force Sherlock to watch something else besides Court TV_ "—and I'm going out to lunch with my best friend on Saturday. I'll most definitely save all of my grading for Sunday. What about you?"

"Well, I had planned on taking a pretty woman out to dinner over the weekend," Paul admitted, "but since she's pretty busy, I guess I can wait for another time. See you around Sian." And Paul left, leaving Sian, stapler in hand, dumbfounded.

---

Sian didn't even bother mentioning Paul to Sherlock. After dinner the next night, the two settled onto the couch.

"Guess what?" Sian asked. Holmes groaned. "What?" she demanded.

"Sian, I'm afraid that I have learned to dread anytime you say 'guess what?' " Holmes informed her. "So what does this involve? Knives, fast food restaurants, or playing dolls with your nieces?"

Sian laughed. "Actually, this one is perfectly safe. We're going to watch a movie." Holmes groaned again, but Sian ignored him this time. She pulled out the box of her DVDs and flipped through, trying to find a good one.

"Hmmm… _Phantom of the Opera_? _Sense and Sensibility_? Oh, I know!" Holmes tried not to grimace. "_Pride and Prejudice_!"

Sian popped the DVD into the player and snuggled into the couch. Holmes was taken aback by Sian's enthusiasm. She usually was good at keeping her outward emotions in check. Well, except for anger. Or skepticism. Or frustration. Okay, so maybe she wasn't good at keeping her outward emotions in check. It was just that Holmes had never seen her so bouncingly happy before.

They watched the movie together, or rather, Holmes watched Sian watch the movie. He wasn't particularly enraptured in it, but Sian clearly was. Anytime the hero, a Mr. Darcy, would show up, Sian would sigh. Once or twice, he even noticed her all-but _trembling_ in anticipation and excitement.

After the movie was over, Sian turned to Holmes, excitedly.

"Wasn't that the greatest movie ever?" she asked bubbly. Holmes merely shrugged.

"Eh," he said. Sian rolled her eyes at him. "What do you find so particularly enrapturing about that film?" he asked. "It wasn't anything extraordinary."

"The romance, of course," Sian said, as if the answer had been obvious.

"You find the hero to be appealing?"

"Of course. Every woman in the world wants to find her Mr. Darcy."

"Hmm. Well, it's a shame that every man in the world isn't exactly like this chap," Holmes observed dryly.

"Oh no," Sian said. "Not every woman wants the same Mr. Darcy. He is just an ideal. Every woman just wants her own version of Mr. Darcy. Like, my Mr. Darcy and Megan's Mr. Darcy are not the same people."

"Ah," Holmes said, as if he understood.

"And speaking of Megan," Sian said, "we're going out for lunch tomorrow."

"Again? Didn't you two go out last week?"

"Actually, it was two weeks ago," Sian corrected. "And she's my best friend. I'm just not lucky enough to live with my best friend and see her every day, like you do." Holmes, slightly flustered, glanced at Sian.

"Oh, no," she stuttered. "I didn't mean me. I meant Dr. Watson."

"Oh. Yes," Holmes said. "Yes, of course."

---

"So, what's new with you?" Megan asked as she sat down at the table at their favorite restaurant.

"Um," Sian said, racking her brain. Friends as they were, Sian still hadn't told Megan that Sherlock Holmes was staying at her house. Soon after the Halloween incident, Sian simply told Megan that the mystery man regained his memory and went home. Sian doubted that Megan remembered the strange occurrence anymore.

"Oh, come on," Megan prompted. "Nothing that comes to mind? I already blathered during the car ride over. It's your turn."

"Well, Paul Livingston asked me out on Thursday," Sian said, blurting out the first thing that she thought of. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Sian wanted to shove her foot in. _What possessed me to say _that?

"Oooohh!" Megan squealed. "When are you two going out? Who is he? How'd you meet him? Spill!"

"Well, I kinda turned him down…" Sian began.

"What?!" Megan shrilled. "Why did you—"

"Hi! Can I get you ladies something to drink?" the waitress interrupted.

Sian, eternally grateful for the interruption, said, "Yes! I'll have a sweet tea with lemon, please."

Megan grudgingly ordered a soda before attacking Sian with her questions.

"Now, tell me _exactly _what happened. What he said, _verbatim_, and what you said, _verbatim_!"

"Well, I don't remember exactly…."

"Sian! Tell me!"

As best as she could, Sian described what had transpired two days before.

"So, you really didn't turn him down, _per se_," Megan mused.

"Yeah, I guess."

"But why in the world didn't you just go with him?" Megan asked, baffled. "I would have understood.

"I don't know," Sian admitted. "I guess it's because I don't feel the right way about him. We don't click in the right way."

"Sian, how can you expect him to be able to click if you don't give him half a chance?" Megan demanded.

"I don't know."

"Sian!" Megan said exclaimed. "Are you in love with someone else?"

"What? No!" Sian cried.

Megan rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, calm down. I was just thinking that maybe that's why you turned down Paul. But if you insist…."

The waitress returned with their drinks. After she left, with their orders taken, Megan leaned across the table.

"Listen Sian," Megan said. "Here's what you're going to do. When you get to school on Monday, you need to find this Paul guy and _you _ask him out."

Sian sighed, resigned. "Fine."

"What's he look like, anyway?"

"Eh. Not too tall—only about 5'5'' or 5'6''—"

"Well, that's still taller than _you_. You're only five-three."

"Five-four," Sian corrected. "And stop interrupting me."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Anyway, he's got pale blue eyes and blonde hair. Round face. I don't know."

"Oooh! He sounds handsome!"

"More cute than handsome," Sian said. "And maybe even more pretty than cute." Megan rolled her eyes.

"What's better than a nice blue-eyed, blonde-haired boy?" she asked.

"I like dark hair better," Sian said. "Brown or black. And as for eyes—"

"I know, I know. Dark brown," Megan finished for her. Sian shook her head.

"Gray," she corrected. Megan made a face.

"Gray? Since when? You've always liked brown eyes best. I remember discussing this in high school."

"I've liked gray eyes for a while," Sian protested.

"Whatever," Megan said dismissively.

"Hmm. I like really tall men, anyway, plus I like guys with sharper features than Paul's. His face is too round."

"And you're too much. Paul sounds gorgeous, and you're pooh-poohing him."

As the waitress returned with their meals, Megan said, "Just promise me you'll go out with him once. For me."

"Fine."


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Chapter Thirteen

"Hey, Paul," Sian said on Monday morning. The two were heading to the building from the teacher's parking lot.

"Oh, hey Sian," Paul said good-naturedly. "How was your weekend?"

"Pretty good. And about that, Paul—" Sian started. She chewed her lower lip in consideration.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Well, does Thursday's offer still stand for this weekend?" she asked uneasily. Why was she feeling so odd about asking Paul out? She'd asked men out before, so it's not as if it was nervousness.

Paul, however, did not know this, and assumed that she was anxious about the whole the-girl-asking-the-guy-out-instead-of-the-other-way-around thing. He simply smiled as charming as smile as he could and said, "Of course, Sian!"

The two made plans in the stairwell, and by the time they reached Sian's classroom, they had already settled on a time.

"So I guess I'll see you Friday at seven," Paul said.

"Paul," Sian said mildly. "I'm going to see you around school long before Friday."

"Oh, right. Well, m'lady, I'm off. I need to pull out my chemicals for my lesson today."

"Oh? What will you be doing?"

"Blowing up Gummi Bears," he said with a grin.

"Oh, charming," Sian said.

"And what will you be doing?"

"Discussing the Civil War and slavery over _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ and _the Red Badge of Courage_. Ever read them?"

Paul made a face. "Um, no. I'm not really into books," he admitted.

Sian sighed. "Ah. Well, you should at least read _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. Classic American literature."

Paul smirked. "Whatever you say, m'lady. See you at lunch!"

"Bye."

Ugh, why wasn't she feeling right about Paul?

---

When Sian got home on Monday, Holmes noticed that she was in an odd humor. When he inquired about it, Sian dismissed it as nothing. Holmes, who knew better than to interfere with Sian, let it go. But her odd humor lasted throughout the week.

Friday evening, Sian made a shepherd's pie for Holmes for dinner, but declined to eat anything herself. A little after six, she disappeared into her room, and stayed in there for a long stretch of time

_What on earth has gotten into her?_ Holmes wondered. About half and hour later, Holmes heard her bedroom door open, followed by her footsteps to the living room. Holmes pretended not to notice. Suddenly, her shadow fell across the book that he was pretending to read. He glanced up…

…and wished he hadn't.

Sian was dressed as Holmes had never seen her before. Usually she wore knee length skirts to school, and pants on the weekends, but he had never seen her in a formal dress before. It was a simple, elegant, off-the-shoulder black dress, which was just short enough that Holmes could see Sian's shapely knees poking out from underneath the hem.

_What?_ Holmes yelled at himself. Shapely knees! Why, he wasn't supposed to be noticing any woman's _anything_, let alone a _shapely_ anything. Holmes averted his eyes down to the floor… and was rewarded with a view of Sian's well-formed ankles, strapped in some rather dangerous looking shoes.

Sian grimaced at Holmes. "Too formal?" she asked, unaware of Holmes's internal crisis.

"Why on earth are you dressed this way?" Holmes asked, trying his hardest to only look into her eyes, and _not_ at her collarbone, throat, or bare shoulders. Holmes was startled to notice that Sian had a rather pleasing pair of eyes, a lovely chocolate brown, framed by smoky eyelashes. God damn it, why was he noticing Sian all of a sudden? It isn't as though he had been completely unaware of the fact that she was a woman prior to this night.

But maybe that _was_ it; maybe he hadn't noticed that she—or any other female, for that matter—was a woman. To him, Sian had always stubbornly been just Sian, or Miss Fairfax, without Holmes even noticing just what that prefix meant.

But now he was noticing. God damn it, what was it about this woman—yes, _woman_—that made him notice for the first time ever?

Maybe he should stare at her forehead. Nothing sensual about a forehead.

Sian crinkled her formerly unattractive forehead. "I'm going out on a date," she said, sounding as if she was announcing that she was on her way to the hangman's noose.

"Oh?" Holmes said, uneasily.

"Yeah. Paul Livingston, this science teacher from school, asked me out. I just suggested pizza and a movie as a first date, but Paul wanted to do it right. You know, dinner, dancing, dessert, drinks, the whole nine yards."

"Oh," Holmes said again. "And do you like this Paul fellow?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah," Sian said. "He's a nice guy. But I hadn't realized like he liked me more than a friend till a week or so ago."

Suddenly, they heard a beeping from the driveway. Sian rolled her eyes.

"That'd be Paul." Sian plucked a small black reticule from the side table. "I'll see you in the morning, Sherlock. In all likelihood, I'll be getting back late tonight, so don't bother to wait up for me." She retrieved her coat from the closet

"Very well," Holmes said unsteadily. "Good-bye, then."

"Tootles," Sian said teasingly, and, after flicking on the porch lights, headed out the door.

---

Holmes brooded the entire time she was gone.

At first, he tried to return to his book, but forensic science couldn't keep his interest; not while visions of Sian were floating in his head. He considered pacing, but that seemed wholly unproductive, and so Holmes declined.

Holmes then went to Sian's personal bookshelf, hoping vainly that he might find some other book that might hold his attention. Most of the books had pink or purple spines, so Holmes had trouble picking something that wasn't utterly feminine. He finally selected a book with a promising dull green spine. He pulled it from the shelf and glanced at the title on the cover. Holmes did a double take.

It was _Pride and Prejudice._

Holmes hastily thrust that one back on the shelf, but that couldn't stop the mental images from that blasted movie from entering his head. Why did Sian find that movie so appealing, anyway? And that Mr. Darcy fellow – why was he so attractive to Sian? Holmes couldn't fathom.

And what about that Paul Livingston? Holmes could feel his blood pressure rising at the very thought of the man. He had never even heard Sian mention the fellow before, and now all of a sudden he was courting her? Why_ was_ she even going out with him? For everything positive she had said of him, she certainly didn't seem excited by the prospect of being courted by him.

Suddenly inspired, Holmes dove back at the bookshelf, looking for Sian's yearbook from the previous year. He knew that Sian had mentioned it before… ah-ha! There it was. Holmes furiously flipped through, trying to find this Livingston fellow's picture.

He found it. Livingston had a pleasant face, with a joking, cocky expression on it.

Holmes hated him on the spot.

Holmes flipped to the previous page, not wanting to see anymore of the man. Seemingly leaping from the page at him was another name; "Miss Sian Fairfax." Holmes glanced at the picture. It was normal, average Sian, as she appeared every day.

God, she was lovely.

Even when she wasn't dressed up, she was gorgeous. Wisps of her golden hair framed her pleasant face, her brown eyes were dancing with merriment, and her lovely mouth was smiling, as if she was sharing a private joke with the cameraman.

Holmes snapped the book shut. He couldn't take it anymore. Why was he finding Sian so enrapturing all of a sudden? He hadn't felt this way about _any_ woman before.

Suddenly, a line from that blasted movie whispered through Holmes's mind; "I love you. Most ardently."

Love.

The word hit Holmes like a ton of bricks. _Love?_ Is that what he was feeling? It seemed more impossible, more preposterous to Holmes than even the notion of time travel.

But was it possible? It certainly would explain the tingliness he felt in his palms, or the shivers down his spine, or the clenching of his heart, which ached, albeit not in a bad way, as if it were going to burst.

_Love._

Holmes couldn't surrender, wouldn't surrender. Love was for fools; it made men weak. But why was he feeling so strong?

No! Women were a distraction! They took away from what was really important!

Holmes was admittedly distracted, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to regain focus, with or without Sian. And, before his very eyes, the stars were changing, and what he had previously deemed important was shifting places with what he had dismissed as a disruption.

Oh, what to do, what to do?

---

For an interesting teacher, Sian soon learned that Paul Livingston was a boring date.

Oh, he did all the right things. He took her to the nicest Italian restaurant in town, and then dancing, followed by the best chocolate mousse she had ever had, and then some champagne…

So why wasn't Sian enjoying herself?

_I must be sick, or something,_ Sian mused as Paul pulled his car into Sian's driveway. Sian saw that all of the lights were out; Sherlock must be asleep.

"Thanks for everything, Paul," Sian said as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "I—" Well, she didn't want to say "I had a good time;" that would be lying. "It was very nice of you," she amended.

"Let me walk you to the door," Paul whispered.

"Oh, no, I can manage," Sian said, quickly slipping out of the car. As she was rounding the hood to make a dash for the front door, Paul, who had inexplicably already made his out of the car, grabbed her by the wrist. He pulled her close to him; Sian felt as if she were being reeled in, like a fish.

"Paul, I—" Sian began, but Paul silenced her with a kiss.

---

Peeking through the closed blinds from the living room, Holmes could see perfectly what was transpiring out on the driveway. He felt his blood boil at the sight of that man kissing Sian. How dare he grab her like that? She clearly wanted no part of his affections. Holmes felt his one hand, as if by its own accord, clench into a tight fist.

---

Sian finally wrenched her lips away from Paul's.

"That's enough of that," Sian whispered. Paul smiled cockily.

"Okay," he said. "See you Monday?"

"Not if I see you first," Sian muttered under her breath, all-but running to the door. She hated the feel of his headlights on her as she struggled to get her blasted key out of her miniscule bag. When she finally pushed the door open, she didn't turn around to Paul in his car and wave, like she normally might have. Hell, she was just happy to be home.

Sian didn't bother to turn on a light when inside. Why, she'd been living in that house for nearly a year now! She knew where everything was.

Sian suddenly slammed into something remarkably solid. _Who put a wall right in the middle of the hallway?_ she wondered dimly, before she realized that that "wall" was just a chest. A man's chest. Sian felt a scream coming. By the moonlight shining in through the window, she could just make out the man's face. She sighed; it was only Holmes.

"Sherlock," she breathed. "It's just you."

"Yes," he agreed, as if he always loomed around in dark hallways at obscene hours of the night. "It's just me."

"What are you still doing up?" Sian asked. It had to be well past midnight by now.

"I—" Holmes stopped short.

"Yes?"

Suddenly, Holmes clutched her shoulders and, before Sian knew it, his mouth was on top of hers. How many times could that happen to one woman in a single night?

But, whereas Sian had been a little less than lackluster in her response to Paul's kiss, Sian responded instantly to Holmes's. She reached up and twined her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. She felt, rather than heard, Holmes groan in the back of his throat, and he slid one of his hands from her bare shoulder up to the side of her face, cupping her cheek.

They broke apart, but only slightly; they were touching, nose to nose.

"Sherlock," Sian said breathlessly.

"Sian," Holmes returned.

"I… I thought that you…."

"Yes?"

"That you left Watson to the fairer sex," Sian said lamely.

"I do," Holmes agreed.

"Then why…?"

"Because," Holmes said, brushing his hand down her back and stopping at her waist, "never before have I loved a woman."

"Loved?" Sian asked, almost hopefully.

"Yes." A smile tugged at the corner of Holmes's mouth. "I've been thinking about it all night, and I've come to the conclusion that I love you."

His words were less than poetic, and not romantic in the least, but they still made Sian's heart summersault inside her chest. That was a lot for Holmes, Sian knew. He never relied on his heart; only his brain.

"And you, Sian?" Holmes asked softly, almost pleadingly.

"Oh, sorry," she whispered. She had been reveling in the moment. "I—" And that's when she realized it; Sian loved him too. Sian considered it; when exactly did she fall in love with Sherlock Holmes? She couldn't pinpoint a time. Oh, she might as well admit it; Sian had been harboring feelings for the great detective for weeks now.

Sian, who was feeling a greater happiness than she had ever known, did the only thing she could think to do; she laughed.

Holmes gave her a worried look, afraid that she might be laughing at his stumblings into the world of heart. Sian noticed his face, and vehemently shook her head.

"Sherlock," she said, "I just realized something."

"And what might that be?"

"I love you too." Sian drew him down for another kiss. Holmes, delighted that his clumsy advances had not failed, kissed her back, wholeheartedly, holding her tighter in his arms.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Don't own Holmes or Moriarty, but Sian is still mine.

Chapter Fourteen

Sian had never been so happy in her entire life. So, _this _was what it was like to be in love. This was the joy that poets exalted, the comfort that lonely souls cried for, and the miracle that was supposed to triumph over all. It wasn't nearly as wonderful as Sian had been led to believe.

It was better.

The next few weeks passed as a blur for Sian, so happy was she. It was early December, so Sian was absorbed with her blossoming romance with Holmes, as well as preparations for Christmas.

Their lives began to take on a new and steady rhythm to it; they would both have breakfast before Sian left for work, spend the afternoon together, jointly prepare dinner, and take a walk around the neighborhood in the moonlight. As they walked, arm in arm, in the blackness of the night, with the moon and stars for light and the softly falling snowflakes illuminated in the streetlights, Sian couldn't help but think, _There can be no greater joy than this._

One evening, after they returned from their evening walk, Sian was much less talkative than usual. There was a question that had been plaguing Sian's mind for some while now. As they were brushing the dusting of snowflakes of off their winter coats, Sian blurted out, "Do you ever still think about Irene?"

Holmes stopped what he was doing. Sian didn't see that as a promising sign.

"Irene Who?" he asked.

"Irene Adler," Sian prompted. Holmes shook his head, shrugging.

"Who is she?" he asked. "Someone I should know?"

"Well, yeah," Sian said uneasily. "She's the only woman who ever outwitted you. Remember? Watson called that one 'A Scandal in Bohemia'?"

"Oh," Holmes said, nodding his head. "I think I recall her now. Yes, quite remarkable. What about her?"

Sian was really regretting mentioning her.

"Never mind," she tried to say.

"Tell me," he said. When he saw that Sian wasn't going to listen, he added, "Please?"

Darn him, he knew how to use his charms.

"Well," she began slowly. "It's just that lots of readers like to, um, speculate, I guess, that you had, um, a, well, _thing _for Irene."

"A thing?" he asked dubiously.

"Yeah. You know, like you liked her."

"Liked her?"

"Sherlock! You know what I mean! Like maybe, you might have, because of her outwitting you lov—" Sian never got a chance to finish her sentence.

"Loved her?" Holmes broke in with a laugh. "How could I have loved her? I didn't actually know her." He wrapped his arms around Sian.

"I know that," Sian mumbled into his chest. "I was never one to flaunt that theory."

"Then why'd you ask?" he asked, amused.

"Because," Sian said stubbornly, "no one else but me will have a chance to ask Sherlock Holmes himself his thoughts on the matter."

"Ah."

"Oh, shut up," she said good-naturedly.

---

Back in London, Watson was beside himself. Holmes had been missing for well over a month, and still there were no traces of him to be found. _The only person who could solve this mystery would be Holmes himself,_ Watson thought dryly.

Oh, he had tried going to Scotland Yard. They half-heartedly investigated the mysterious case, but without any solid evidence, they soon gave up. Professor Moriarty was still on the loose, doing whatever it was he intended to do.

The future did not look bright for London.

---

Meanwhile, at his flat, Moriarty smiled wickedly to himself. His first run with his time-travel device had gone remarkably well, without any of the sort of glitches that one might expect.

Over the past month and a half, Moriarty had performed a series of experiments with his machine, studying its affects and carefully writing them down. His "guinea pigs," so to speak, weren't actually hamster-like rodents, but men that Moriarty had kidnapped from the very streets of London.

Moriarty reread over his notes.

_-The device can transport a man through time, either to the past or to the future_

_-If a man is killed in either the past or the future, he will remain, in fact, dead. Dying in another period will not affect the lifeline._

_-However, if a man travels to his own past (i.e., to a time when he had already existed), then he will cease to exist in any lifetime. Theory: a man cannot twice exist in any given time period, even if the two selves are from different times (i.e., a man when he is 30 and that man when he was two)._

Moriarty smiled. It was all too perfect; his plan was perfectly lain out, and not a hitch would occur.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

But, even better than that, he was going to make sure that the great detective never existed; he was going to kill him in his infancy.

Moriarty prepared the device to travel back to 1854, the year of Holmes's birth, but he stopped himself. Well, where was the fun in that? Mind you, he still intended to kill Holmes soon after his birth, but he wanted to make sure that he knew it. Moriarty didn't just want Holmes to never exist—he wanted him to actually _know_ that he never was going to exist.

Moriarty changed the dial to the random time in which he had thrust Holmes, back in October. _Two-thousand and six, eh?_ Moriarty mused. It'd be rather interesting to see the future. And that tracking device that he had planted on the arm-transporter would make it even easier to find Holmes.

Moriarty prepared to leave.

---

Sian was sitting at the kitchen table, grading some essays comparing Juliet and Desdemona from _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Othello_, respectively, from her ninth grade class. Upon her request, Holmes was checking over some multiple choice tests from her Civil War Unit. They were working quietly, but were suddenly interrupted by a knocking at the door.

"I'll get it," Sian volunteered, dashing over to the front door. Figuring that it was just her neighbor asking to borrow for an egg, again, Sian opened the door without bothering to look through the side window.

Standing on her doorstep was a man that she had never seen before. He was short, light haired, and maybe in his late twenties.

_Now who in the world could he be?_ Sian wondered.

"Um, hello?" Sian asked.

"Is Sherlock Holmes here?" the man asked.

Sian closed the door a few inches, but not enough to seem rude. "Who are you?" she asked, hanging on the side of the door.

"Someone is asking for me, Sian?" Holmes said from the kitchen. He walked up behind Sian and opened the door all the way. He saw Moriarty and his face instantly hardened.

"Moriarty," he spat, sidestepping Sian and standing in the doorway.

"Well, I see that life hasn't been too hard for you here, Holmes," Moriarty said, jovially enough. "And here I thought that you be on the streets somewhere. But, no. You found a beautiful woman to shack up with. I'm sure she's been taking _special_ care of you." Sian saw Holmes's fist clenched into a tight fist.

"And I thought that you didn't like women, either," Moriarty said, continuing to prod Holmes. "But I guess all it takes is the right one, eh?"

"What the hell do you want?" Holmes said harshly. Sian could see the crescent shaped indents from his fingernails imbedded in his hand.

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood, and I thought that I'd stop by and say 'hi' one last time."

"What are you talking about?" Holmes asked. Sian nearly jumped at the dangerous edge to his voice. _My goodness,_ Sian thought. If looks could kill, Moriarty would be a dead man slumped on her front porch.

"Isn't my machine such a delightful invention?" Moriarty asked, smiling. "It works so remarkably well."

Holmes narrowed his eyebrows. Sian hoped that he understood Moriarty's game, because she was utterly lost.

"My God," Holmes exclaimed. "You're not going to—"

"Make sure that a certain detective doesn't survive past his own birth?" Moriarty grinned. "I do hope that you've spent your last month in pleasure; it certainly appears that you have. Now, if you'll excuse me—" Moriarty never got to finish his sentence; Holmes leaped from the doorway, furiously attacking the mad professor. Sian gasped. She had known that Holmes was proficient in boxing, but still….

Moriarty hadn't expected the attack. As Holmes was taking bloody swings at him, Moriarty was trying vainly to block the blows, all while reaching for his transporter. In the background, Sian was screaming, shouting, "Oh my God, oh my God!"

Suddenly, Moriarty found his transporter, and flipped the return switch. In a flash of blue light, both Moriarty and Holmes disappeared from Sian's front lawn.

"Sherlock!" Sian cried out. She ran out to the lawn, where he had been. "Sherlock?" she said again. Collapsing on her knees, Sian fell on the patch of grass where he last had been, sobbing violently into her hands. _"Oh, Sherlock!"_


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: _sigh_. Still not mine.

Chapter Fifteen

It was after dark when Watson heard a furious pounding at the front door. He had been reading the London Times in the living room (and, truly, it just wasn't the same without having to all-but wrestle the paper away from Holmes), and the knocking had startled Watson out of his oblivion. He did his very best to keep his mind occupied in these dark days after Holmes's disappearance, and any distraction was welcome.

Heaving a sigh, Watson climbed out of his chair and headed for the door.

"Hello…" Watson started to say, but when he saw the very familiar form on the doorstep, he gasped. "Holmes!" he cried.

The man was leaner, battered and beaten, and wearing a most unusual outfit, but it was undeniably Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes smiled grimly and humorlessly. "Yes, Watson. Now, dash it all, let me in! There's an emergency!"

Watson hastily stepped away from the door, letting Holmes step into 221B Baker Street, which, somehow, didn't feel like home anymore.

"Holmes, where have you been? And what in God's name has happened to you?" Watson demanded as Holmes made his way to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of port.

After downing his liquor, Holmes said, "Well, would you believe it if I told you that time travel was to blame?"

"What?" Watson demanded.

"Time travel," Holmes said, pouring himself another glass. "That's what Moriarty was up to. That's what his blasted device is capable of." He slammed his empty glass onto the table. "We are in severe need of some more alcohol here," Holmes said unevenly, "because we are in quite a predicament.

"Now, first off, do you believe me, Watson?" Holmes asked. Watson nodded his head.

"I saw him use that device on you. I saw you disappear into thin air. I believe you."

"Good. Now let me tell you what his plan is; Moriarty plans to his machine, travel to the year 1854, and kill me in my infancy. He is going to try to kill me before I become a detective and his greatest adversary." Holmes paused. Suddenly, he had a thought that hadn't occurred to him before. "Oh, my God, Watson!" he cried, with an edge of hysteria in his voice. "And he's going to be successful! He is going to kill me before I become a detective! All that will be left of me are those blasted manuscripts of yours! _That's why I don't exist!_" Holmes paced up and down the room.

"Calm down, Holmes," Watson said. "Of course you exist. You're right here. No one will forget your legacy."

"You don't understand," Holmes cried. "Moriarty sent me to the future, and in the future, I am nothing more than a silly fictional character invented by some man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!"

Watson, flustered, said, "But, well, that's me!" He pounded himself on the chest. "_I_ _am _Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!"

Holmes shook his head. "I know that, but the people of the future don't seem to know that. They think that you and I and Moriarty and everything else are all make-believe."

"We must stop him!" Watson declared. "We can't let that happen to you! Has he already traveled to 1854?" Holmes nodded. "Well, then we must go after him!" Holmes shook his head. Holmes seemed especially forlorn, Watson noted. He assumed it was from his possible immanent non-existence, or quite possibly from his ordeal from the future.

"No, we can't; don't you see? I looked over Moriarty's notes, and we cannot travel back to that year."

"Well, why in Heaven's name not?"

"Because you and I already existed in 1854. If we go back there, then we will cease to exist altogether."

"Then how is Moriarty able to go?"

"Because, my good doctor, he is younger than us. He did not exist at all in 1854, and thus can safely travel to that time."

"Well, then the answer is simple!" Watson declared. "We must simply find a person younger than us to travel to 1854 and save you. Now, can you think of anyone who'd do that for you?"

One name flashed into Holmes's mind. "Sian," he said.

"Sian?" Watson asked. "Who is Sian?"

Holmes chewed his lower lip. "Just a remarkable young woman I met while in the future. She was my only confidant." Watson assumed that there was more to this young woman than Holmes was admitting, but he let it go.

"Very well. Then we must go ask the young lady to assist us."

"Never!" Holmes cried. "I will _not_ ask Sian to risk her life for me. Evidentially, it's going to be a lost cause anyway, and I'd just as soon not have her involved."

"But what about you? Are you not important?"

"Not important enough to risk her life," Holmes said decidedly. "She's better off without me, anyway."

Watson wasn't going to give up that easily. "This girl is from the future, correct?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Yes."

"Where exactly were you, anyway? It must have been quite a curious thing to see the future."

"It was curious, to say the least," Holmes said dryly. "And to answer your first question, I was in New London, Pennsylvania, America in the year 2006." As soon as he said the words, Holmes regretted it. "Don't you dare," he said warningly to Watson. Truly, the man was smarter than most people gave him credit for.

"Holmes," Watson said, "I cannot believe that you are demeaning your own self-worth. Just think about how London, England, or the world would exist without you. If this young woman is the only one who can quite possibly save your life, then, by God, I'm going to ask her to do it.

"And anyway," Watson continued, "wouldn't you do the same for her?" Holmes was silent. "I thought so," Watson said smugly. "Will you go and ask her?"

"No."

"Then I shall."

"Watson, don't you dare—"

But it was too late, as Watson had already pressed the button that transported him to the future, and to Holmes's savior.

---

Sian felt dead inside.

She had been lying on her sofa for hours now. She wasn't sure if she was upset because Holmes was gone, or because she knew that his life was in great danger, and that she could do nothing to save him. Probably both. And especially the latter.

She was roused by a sudden pounding on the door. Sian heaved a sigh and hauled herself off the couch and headed to the door.

Standing at the doorstep was yet another man that she didn't recognize. Sian groaned inwardly.

"Yes?"

"Are you Sian?" the man asked. "Forgive me, but I'm afraid that I don't know your last name."

"Fairfax," Sian said automatically. She wondered if that had been wise. Probably not.

"Miss Fairfax," the man said, bowing, taking off his hat. "I am Dr. John Watson." Sian's eyes grew.

"Dr. Watson!" she cried. "Oh my God! What's wrong? How did you get here? Is Sherlock okay?"

Watson was pleased to see Miss Fairfax's concern over his friend.

"As of now, as far as I know, yes, he his fine." Sian sighed a huge sigh of relief.

"Thank God. Did you stop Moriarty?"

"No. Actually, Miss Fairfax, that is why I am here."

"Oh! Come in, come in, Dr. Watson; tell me inside."

"Thank you, Miss Fairfax." She led him to the living room, where Watson seated himself in a chair. She perched herself on the edge of the couch.

"How much do you already know of Moriarty's plan?" Watson asked.

"Just that he plans to use his machine to kill Sherlock as a baby."

"Ah. Let me explain, then, what I have learned about time travel." Sian scooted closer to Watson.

"A man can travel to anyplace in time, with only one exception."

"What's that?" Sian asked.

"A man cannot travel to a time in which he already existed. If he does, he will, as far as I understand, disappear." Sian's eyes widened even farther.

"I will be perfectly frank with you, Miss Fairfax. I am here to ask you if you would be willing to travel to 1854 and save Holmes's life. I would go myself, but as I was born in 1852 and thus already existed in 1854, I cannot."

"I'll do it," Sian said, with no hesitation.

"Are you sure? It will be dangerous, to be sure."

Sian shook her head. "I don't care. I'd gladly risk my life for him. I'd do anything for him."

Watson smiled. "I had hoped you'd say that," he said. "And now, we must return to Baker Street and better prepare you for your mission."

---

It wasn't even an hour later when Sian and Watson appeared in the parlor of 221B Baker Street. Holmes was sitting in his usual armchair, "musing," as he would put it, "pouting," as Sian would.

When Sian saw Holmes, she wanted to throw herself in his arms, but something about his demeanor prevented her; somehow, out of its element, their romance didn't seem real anymore. It pained Sian, but she was happier to see Holmes well and good.

"Miss Fairfax, as you've undoubtedly guessed, has agreed to help," Watson said.

"You mean you guilted her into doing it," Holmes said darkly.

"Sherlock, you know I'd do anything to save you," Sian added softly. Holmes pretended not to notice. Sian sighed. _Damned misogynistic detective._ "What more can you tell me about your birth?" Sian asked.

"I'm not telling you anything," Holmes said decidedly. "Now, with no information, you can go home." _Anything to keep you safe…_. It really hurt Holmes to pretend indifference to Sian, but if he did, maybe she'd be less inclined to risk her life for him….

"I don't care," Sian said. "You should know me well enough by now, Sherlock, to know that I'm extremely stubborn, and I'm going to do whatever I damn well please. Which is, namely, save your life." Holmes frowned. "Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to provide me with more information about your birth, I will be more likely to save your life, and less likely to be, oh, I don't know, _killed_ by Moriarty."

"Fine," Holmes huffed. "I was born on January 6, 1854. My parents are Siger and Violet Holmes. My mother will die shortly after my birth. My brothers, Sherrinford and Mycroft, are… nine and seven. We live in Holmes Manor in Yorkshire." Holmes paused, considering. "I cannot think of anything else to say concerning my birth."

"That will certainly suffice, Detective," Sian said. She turned to Watson. "Anything else I should know?"

"Well," Watson said. "Do you know how to fire a gun?"

"Absolutely not!" Holmes roared. "I will not allow Sian to use a gun!" Sian ignored him.

"No, Doctor, I do not," Sian replied primly. Watson moved towards his desk drawer and pulled out his revolver. He was ignoring Holmes's protests as well. "This is a fairly simple model, Miss Fairfax. All you need to do is…."

Holmes tuned out Watson's instructions. "Watson. You're not seriously going to give your revolver to a_ woman_, are you?" Oh, it stung to insult Sian, but he had to dissuade her from rescuing him! He tried not to recoil at the cold glare that Sian gave him.

"Holmes, consider it," Watson said. "We are—_I am—_sending Miss Fairfax into a dangerous situation. The least I can do is to provide her with some means of protection."

"Not sending her into the dangerous situation in the first place would be the best means of protection," Holmes sulked. Watson ignored him again.

"Anything else?" Sian asked Watson.

"Well, my dear, all that we need to do is have Mrs. Hudson provide you with some clothing, have Holmes give you a map of Yorkshire, and I believe you could leave in the morning."


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Still not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning found Sian on the doorstep of Holmes Manor in the December of 1853, with nothing more than a map and a carpetbag filled with dresses that Mrs. Hudson had donated for the cause. For a housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson had proved to be a Grade A packrat, the dresses that she gave to Sian being ones that she actually had worn in the 1850's.

With only a moment of nervous hesitation, Sian knocked on the heavy oaken door, her knees wobbling from nervousness. Oh, why wouldn't anyone answer the door, already?

Sian heard the squeak of the door hinges and stood straight as a poker. A man in a suit answered the door. He was an old man, slightly hunched over, and had silver wisps of hair framing his bald crown. Funny, Sian had expected Sherlock's dad to look, well, more like Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes?" Sian asked, trying not to stutter.

"Mr. Holmes is not at home at the present time, Miss," the man said in a monotone voice.

"Wait a second. If you're not Mr. Holmes, then who are you?"

"I am Sykes, the butler, Miss."

"Oh." _Brilliant one, Sian,_ she chastised herself. _This is a frickin' manor home… it would be even weirder if they _didn't _have a butler._

"I shall tell Mr. Holmes that you called," Sykes said, moving to close the door. Sian stopped it with her foot.

"Well, actually, I'm here to see Mrs. Holmes," Sian said. Sykes just stared at her. "If you would be so good as to fetch her?" Sian suggested, stepping into the foyer.

"Very well," Sykes said, exasperated. "Who should I say is calling?"

"Um, Sian Fairfax."

As Sykes went off to fetch Mrs. Holmes, Sian looked around the great house. _Sherlock wasn't kidding when he called it a manor._ Who'd ever imagine that the detective of 221B Baker Street came from such a noble family? As Sian was admiring the general splendor, a kind voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Hello? I heard that I had a caller." Sian looked over. Coming from the hallway was a short, raven-haired woman who was easily nine months pregnant. Ah. So this must be Sherlock's mother.

"Mrs. Holmes?"

"Yes, that's me. But you really must call me Violet. 'Mrs. Holmes' makes me feel so old," Violet confessed, making a face.

"Violet, then. I'm Sian Fairfax, and—"

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Yes, it's a pleasure to meet you, too. Mrs. H— I mean, Violet. I have something rather urgent to tell you." Sian glanced around, as if she expected Sykes to be peeking his head from behind the suit of armor. "Would you mind if we spoke in private?"

"Of course, of course," Violet said. "Follow me."

Sian was surprised by Sherlock's mother. She seemed bright and cheery, and an overall happy person. _Nothing like her stick-in-the-mud son_, Sian thought grumpily. It was also rather startling to think that the baby that she was carrying would one day be the most famous detective in the world.

Sian eventually was led into a green house directly in the back of the house. Violet lowered herself in one of the petite white benches along the side of the room. Sian was half-afraid that it wouldn't hold her heavy, pregnant figure, but it held up. Sian sat in a chair across from Violet.

"It's not as formal as the parlor," Violet said, almost apologetically, "but I like it better in here. And, I've always rather had a green thumb." She affectionately patted the fern to her side. Sian smiled. "Should I ring for some tea?" she asked.

"Um, no, thank you."

"Very well. Now, how do I know you… miss? Missus?"

"Miss. And, um, you don't know me, exactly," Sian said uneasily.

"Oh? Then what can I do for you?"

"Um… I guess I'm here to warn you," Sian said. _My, this is hard to say. _Why hadn't she even prepared some sort of speech for this?

"Warn me?" Violet asked, startled.

"Yes. You see, I, er, well… I have reason to believe that there is a murderer in the area and, well, both the lives of you and your unborn baby are in danger."

"What?" Violet gasped. "Who?"

"A Professor James Moriarty."

"I know no such person," Violet said vehemently. "Why would he want to kill me?"

"Well…." Sian said carefully. "It isn't really _you_ he's after. It's more like your baby."

"My baby?" Violet shrieked. "What kind of madman would want to kill an unborn child? A sweet innocent baby?" She wrapped her arms protectively around her swollen stomach.

"Well… it's not your baby, _per se_, but more like who your baby's going to be." _Jeez,_ Sian thought. _Could I be any less tactful?_

"_What?"_

"You know how they say that truth is stranger than fiction?" Sian asked. Violet nodded slightly. "Well, this is one of those occasions. I know that this is going to be hard to believe, but please bear with me… Professor Moriarty is from the future… from the year 1884, to be precise… and your baby is going to grow up to be his greatest adversary. That's why I'm here… I'm from the future as well… I've been sent here to save your son's life."

"You're insane!" Violet shouted, jumping from her seat. She was not a tall woman, but she was intimidating.

"No, I'm not! I—" Sian started.

"Get out of my house!"

"But, Mrs. Holmes! What about you?" Sian asked pleadingly.

"I will be fine! Now, get out of m—"

"But what about Sherlock?"

Violet stopped. "What did you say?"

"I said, _'What about Sherlock?'_"

"Sherlock?"

"Your son."

"We're naming him Siger, Junior," Violet said slowly. "Or, at least, that's what my husband wants. _Nobody _knows that I want to name him Sherlock." She dropped back down to the bench.

Sian saw her opportunity and seized it. "No, no!" she cried. "His name isn't going to be Siger. He's going to be Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!"

"The name does roll off the tongue nicely, doesn't it?" Violet asked. "I— I want to just think that you made a lucky guess, but… Sherlock is such an uncommon name. I guess… I guess I'll have to believe you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes!" Sian said, eternally grateful that Violet was easier to convince of time travel than she herself had been.

"Violet," Violet reminded her mildly.

"Violet," Sian repeated. "And let me assure you that I will do anything and everything in my power to assure that you and Sherlock won't be killed by Moriarty."

"What should I do?" Violet asked.

"Well… I suppose that I should stay here," Sian suggested. "Since I am the only one who could identify Moriarty."

"Very well," Violet said, rising. "I shall have the guest room prepared for you."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Sian protested. "I could just stay in the servant's quarters…."

"Nonsense. If you are here as my guest, then you shall be staying in the guest room." Violet studied Sian. "I don't think that we should tell Siger why you're really here," Violet said.

"Probably not," Sian agreed. Violet snapped her fingers, as if an idea had just struck her.

"I know," she said decidedly. "We shall tell him that you're my dear cousin, who has come to visit and help out with the baby after he's born."

"Cousin Sian," Sian mused. "Where should I be from?"

"Cardiff," Violet said decidedly. "Can you do something about your accent, though? It is dreadfully noticeable."

"I'm not sure if I can disguise my accent," Sian said in her best British accent. Violet frowned.

"You're right. Hmm." Violet considered. "Maybe you were born in Cardiff, but immigrated to America as a child, where you adopted that accent."

"And now I'm back in Great Britain to visit my family?" Sian suggested. Violet nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, yes. I think that should suffice." She grinned. "Now, let me show you to the guest room."

"Where is your husband, anyway?" Sian asked when they reached the room. She threw her carpetbag on the bed.

"He's in town, pretending that he's _not_ buying me jewelry for Christmas." Violet smiled. "He really does spoil me, the dear man."

"And he took the boys with him?" Sian asked. Violet nodded.

"My boys… Sherrinford and Mycroft… _they're _not in danger too, are they?" she asked, chewing on her lower lip.

Sian shook her head.

"And what does this Moriarty fellow have against my Sherlock?" Violet asked, hugging her belly again. Sian smiled slightly, in spite of herself. She noticed that Violet had quite taken to calling her unborn baby "Sherlock," despite not officially winning the argument against her husband yet.

"Sherlock is going to be the greatest, most famous detective in the history of the world," Sian explained. "And Moriarty is one of the most notorious criminals. Sherlock has foiled so many of his plots, and has so many confrontations with the man, that Moriarty just wants to erase him from the world altogether."

"A detective…." Violet mused. Sian thought that Violet was going to ask her a question, but they heard a door slamming downstairs, followed by some happy cries of small children. An enormous grin spread across Violet's face.

"The boys are home," she said happily. "Let's go introduce them to you, shall we?"


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: not mine!

Chapter Seventeen

When Sian and Violet emerged downstairs, Sian could see a tall man, dressed in black, and two hyperactive boys running around the foyer. When the boys saw Violet, they ran to the foot of the staircase.

"Mama!" they cried.

"Guess what Papa got for you in town!" the younger boy, who Sian decided must be Mycroft, asked eagerly. His brother, Sherrinford, roughly elbowed him in the ribs. "Ow! What was that for?" Mycroft whined.

"It's supposed to be a _secret_, you blundering idiot!" Sherrinford whispered harshly.

"Oh, right. Never mind, Mama." Violet smiled and bent down to kiss her sons on their heads. She walked over to Siger and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, darling," she said demurely. Siger caught sight of Sian, who was still on the stairs.

"Hullo! Who is this?" he asked.

"Siger, dear, this is my beloved cousin, Sian Fairfax. She's come to stay with us and help take care of the baby after he's born."

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Fairfax," Siger said. Sian bit back a laugh. Apparently, Sherlock inherited his large Roman nose from his father.

"And a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Holmes," Sian said. "It's so nice to finally meet my Cousin Violet's lovely family."

"It's rather remarkable; I don't remember hearing about you at all," Siger mused.

"Well, I was born in Cardiff," Sian said, trying out her fib, "but my family immigrated to America when I was a small child. I haven't seen Violet or any of my other relations since my childhood."

"Ah, I see," Siger said.

"And I mentioned Sian not too long ago," Violet added. "Remember, dear? When I said that she was coming for a holiday? That was only a few weeks ago."

"Oh, of course, of course," Siger said. "I do believe I recall now." Sian almost started to laugh at Siger's expense, but she managed not to.

"Now, boys," Violet said. "Can you say hello to your Aunt Sian?"

"Hello," Sherrinford and Mycroft said shyly. Sian's heart warmed up to them instantly.

"Hi, boys," she said, kneeling down to their level. "It's so nice to meet you. And I'm sure that we'll have lots of fun while I'm visiting."

---

The next day, Siger, Sherrinford, and Mycroft went out for a drive, "to let the boys get some fresh air," as Siger put it, but both Sian and Violet realized that it was to pick up the piece of jewelry that he "hadn't" gotten her, and Siger knew it.

It was a particularly cold day outside, with the wind violently whipping across the lawn, and Violet had Sykes prepare a fire in the fireplace. She and Sian settled themselves in front of the fire.

Sian, with her head resting on her bent knees, looked over at Violet, who seemed to be basking in the warmth.

"Shouldn't you be in confinement by now?" Sian asked her. "You're pretty far along with your pregnancy."

"Exercise is good for expecting mothers, when they're not in the very last weeks of their term," Violet said. "That's why I garden—well, at least, tend to my plants in the greenhouse. Anyway, I'll go into confinement in a fortnight or so. I'm not due till towards the end of January."

"Ah," Sian said, not wanting to correct her. She was right; exercise was good for pregnant women. If she told her that Sherlock would end up being born on the sixth, Violet would want to go into confinement earlier.

Sian was pretty amazed by Violet. She was a bright and perky woman. It was really a shame that Sherlock would never know her. The thought depressed Sian; even if she did save Violet from Moriarty, she was destined to die from childbirth complications anyway.

Violet played with the fringe on the edge of her shawl. "Tell me about Sherlock," she said. "What's he going to be like?"

"Um," Sian said, unsure of where to begin. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything," Violet said. "But start with his appearance."

"Well, he's very tall. Six feet tall exactly."

"Oh, my!" Violet laughed, patting her stomach. "It's hard to believe that this little baby is going to be so tall one day." Sian laughed.

"And he looks a lot like you—he has your black hair and gray eyes. But he has your husband's nose."

"Aw. Poor boy," Violet giggled. Sian was happy to see that she was not without humor.

"What else?" Violet demanded.

"Um…."

"You said that he's a detective. Tell me more about that."

"I'm not sure what to say. He's extremely brilliant. He's a consulting detective, and his clients bring their mysteries straight to him, and he can usually solve them from the comfort of his own home."

"Where does he live?"

"In London, at 221B Baker Street. He shares a flat with his best friend, Dr. John Watson." As an afterthought, Sian added, "Mycroft lives in London, too."

"Where is Sherrinford?"

"Here, at Holmes Manor."

"Are you acquainted with my other boys, as well?"

"Well, not exactly. I only know what I've heard, which is very little."

"What have you heard?"

"Just that Mycroft is a member of the Diogenes Club. Oh, and he's better at deduction than even Sherlock."

"Is he a detective, too?"

"No; he's kinda lazy."

Violet laughed. "That sounds like my Mycroft," she said. "Sherrinford loves to go outside and play cricket, but Mycroft would rather stay inside and read dime novels all day." Sian smiled.

Violet curled her legs up. "So, how exactly do you know my Sherlock?" she asked. "Are you from 1884, as well?"

"Not exactly," Sian started slowly. "I'm actually from much further in the future."

"What year?"

"I was born in the year 1983, but I live in the year 2006."

"My," Violet gasped. "That is far along. How do you know Sherlock, then?"

"Well, let me start by saying that I've always known about him; even in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, Sherlock Holmes is still a famous name. There is no other detective more famous than he. But I officially met the real Sherlock, as opposed to the historical persona, last October. Moriarty was testing his time machine out for the first time, and he used Sherlock as his test subject. He sent him to 2006, where I met him.

"But when he found out about Moriarty's plan to kill him at birth… Sherlock was too proud to ask for help. Dr. Watson came and asked me himself."

"Why did they choose to send you?" Violet asked.

"Because of some oddity that goes along with time travel. Apparently, you can't travel to a time in which you already existed, or you'll disappear, or something. Moriarty hasn't been born yet, so he can come here, but since Sherlock and Watson both already exist… they needed someone younger than themselves to help them. So that's why I'm here."

"I know you'll be successful," Violet said. "I just know it.

"I'd do anything for my boys, you know," she said to Sian. Sian nodded. Violet continued.

"They mean the world to me. I… I've never had an easy time getting with child. I married Siger when I was twenty-one, but I didn't conceive a child until a year later. I miscarried twice before I had Sherrinford. Siger was so happy, he immediately named him after me."

"Sherrinford?" Sian asked dubiously.

"That was my maiden name," Violet explained. "And I loved my first little boy to pieces. I wanted another baby. I miscarried once more before I finally had Mycroft. He was given Siger's mother's maiden name, since she had recently died. I'd always envisioned having a bushel of babies when I was younger, and I still wanted that dream to come true. I had never imagined that I would have such a difficult time having children, though.

"So when Mycroft was a year old, Siger and I decided that we wanted to have another baby. We were delighted when that pregnancy didn't end during the first few months. But, when I delivered, the baby was stillborn. We named the little dear Beatrice and had a simple funeral. Mycroft was too young to remember his sister, but Sherrinford still remembers that funeral a little, I believe. I miscarried four more times before I had Dorothy, another stillborn daughter. Both of the boys remember Dorothy's funeral.

"I was getting desperate at that point. I was thirty, mother of only two children, and I was getting older. So we decided to try one more time. When I first learned that I was with child again, I didn't tell Siger. All of the miscarriages were breaking his heart, I know, so I decided to keep this pregnancy a secret, in case I miscarried. But, after four months, I still had the baby, so I told Siger. Oh, he was so happy!

"He has his heart set on naming the baby Siger, Junior, like I said before, but I've always rather liked the name Sherlock. It's such a relief to know that I will win the argument," she said jokingly. But, more soberly, she said, "I love my children more than anything; I'd give my life for them. But I think that Sherlock is even dearer to me because of the struggle it was to keep him."

Sian turned her face away from Violet. The tears were threatening to brim over, and she didn't want Violet to see. Violet's story broke her heart; how could such a wonderful woman be doomed to die on the childbed? Sian's heart broke for Siger, Sherrinford, Mycroft, Violet herself, but most of all for Sherlock, since he'd never have the opportunity to know the mother who was already so proud of her third son.

The two women were silent for a length of time. Finally, Violet said, "Sian, tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Do you love my son?"

"Why do you ask?"

"A mother's intuition," Violet said, smiling. "Do you love my Sherlock?"

Sian thought of his awkward advances that time when Paul had taken her out on a date. She smiled, in spite of herself, and then frowned, thinking of his recent rejection of her. It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it, but then Sian realized, _If I don't love him, then why I am here, risking my life for him?_

"Sian?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I love him. Tremendously.

"And if he were to ask you to marry him, would you?"

_Well, he never will, but… _"Yes," Sian said, her voice whisper-soft. "In a heartbeat."

Violet practically squealed in delight. "I will be very proud to call you my daughter one day," she said. Sian tried to muster a smile for Violet's sake. "Won't Siger be surprised when that happens?" Violet asked, bemused. "I suppose we'll have to tell him then."

"Yes," Sian managed. "I suppose we will."

The grandfather clock chimed the hour, startling Violet and Sian out of their discussion.

"Look at the time," Violet said. "Siger and the boys should be returning soon with my garnet ring soon." Sian's jaw nearly dropped.

"How do you know that they're getting you a garnet ring?" she asked, befuddled. "Did Mycroft accidentally tell you?"

Violet laughed. "No," she said. "I just know that's what he's getting me."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because, Siger always gets me a ring." Violet stopped. "I guess I should start at the beginning. Sherrinford was born on September eleventh. Soon after, Siger gave me a sapphire ring. The sapphire is the birthstone of September, you see. And when Mycroft was born on May seventh, Siger gave me an emerald ring, for May's birthstone." She extended her fine hand out to Sian. Sian could see the blue and green jewels sparkle on her thin fingers. "I also had an opal ring for Beatrice and a diamond ring for Dorothy; Siger had gotten those rings before the births, you see. But I put those rings on chains and buried them with my girls. But since Sherlock is going to be born in January, Siger is getting me a nice garnet ring." Violet laughed a bit. "Even if Mycroft hadn't tried to tell me, I would have known what Siger was doing in town, and he knows it."

"Mama! Mama! Guess what Papa has for you!" they heard Mycroft calling, followed by Sherrinford screaming, "No! Don't tell! It's a _surprise_!"

Violet laughed.

"The boys are home."


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: still not mine

Chapter Eighteen

Sian quickly became accustomed to life in Holmes Manor. It was almost as if she really was Cousin Sian from Cardiff. But no matter how much Sian was enjoying being an honorary Holmes, she could not forget her mission.

The boys had quite taken to Sian. Sian supposed that it was because she had a new person sort of appeal to them, and also because she acted as a big playmate for the two of them. _Well,_ Sian thought Christmas morning, after a few rounds of jacks and marbles, _if I never accomplish anything else in my life, at least I can know that I was a fun aunt, to Paris and London, as well as to Sherrinford and Mycroft._

Just as Violet had predicted, Siger had gotten her a garnet ring.

"Here's to our third child," Siger said as he slipped the ring on her finger, kissing her.

Sherlock actually was number twelve, but Sian assumed that they just wanted to erase the sad memories from their minds.

And, as if it had been planned all along, there even was a present for Sian.

"You really shouldn't have," Sian protested as the boys presented the package to Sian. "Especially since I wasn't able to get anything for you…."

"Nonsense," Siger said. "Your presence is gift enough. Now open it." Sian did as she was instructed, and a golden locket tumbled out of the wrapping.

"Oohh," Sian said. "Thank you so much. It's lovely. I don't know what to say."

"Put it on, Sian," Violet instructed, and Sian knew instantly that Violet had planted the idea in Siger's head.

"Aunt Sian?" Mycroft asked. "Wanna play marbles again?" Sian sighed. _Well, it could be worse,_ she thought. _At least there's no Princess Genevieve involved._

"Sure, Mycroft."

---

The days passed, and still Sian had seen no trace of Moriarty. She had inquired, as subtly as she could manage, to the servants if they had seen any unfamiliar men around the area, but they all denied seeing him.

_Surely he hasn't given up,_ Sian thought. _I'm not_ that _threatening._

On January fifth, Sian and Violet were sitting in the library. Violet was feeling weary and unenergetic, and she was just sitting, curled up in a large armchair in front of the fireplace. Sian was sitting next to her, reading poems from the book of Wordsworth's poetry that the boys had gotten her for Christmas.

"I wandered lonely as a Cloud/ That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,/ When all at once I saw a crowd,/ A host of golden daffodils/ Beside—" Sian was interrupted by the sudden thrusting open of the library door and the stamps of running feet.

"Mama, Mama, Mama!" Mycroft said eagerly.

"What is it, my love?" Violet asked in a tired voice.

"It's snowing outside!" he announced.

"Is that so?" she asked, glancing out of the window. Both she and Sian could see the large cottony flakes falling from the sky in large clumps. "Why, so it is. And on top of the Christmas snow, too."

"Want to go outside and play in it, Mama?" Sherrinford asked.

"Oh, not today, honey. Mama's feeling tired."

Her rejection sobered Sherrinford's enthusiasm, but then he said, "How about you, Aunt Sian? Want to play in the snow?"

"Oh, I'm not sure if I should—" Sian glanced at Violet. "I shouldn't leave your Mama alone."

"Oh, go outside and play in the snow," Violet said, waving her hand. Sian raised her eyebrows at her.

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"Siger's just in the other room," Violet pointed out. "The office door's not even twenty feet away from my chair. Go on; I'll be fine."

"I suppose…." Sian said. She turned to the boys. "Let's me go put some woolens on, and I'll meet you by the back door."

Before she walked out of the door, Sian laid her reticule on the side table. Sian hadn't gone anywhere without the bag, for inside it was Watson's revolver. She wanted to be prepared for any situation with Moriarty. After instructing Mrs. Green, the cook, not to move or even touch her bag, Sian went outside, leaving the backdoor unlocked. She knew that she'd want to go inside fairly soon, even if the boys did not.

Sian felt funny about leaving Violet alone, but Violet did have a point. Siger was just in the next room, and they had seen no sight of Moriarty yet. And, anyway, it would take a lot of gall for a man to sneak into a house in the middle of the day when everyone was home.

The snow was the nice sticky kind that is perfect for snowball fights, so that's what the three decided to do. Sian and Mycroft were on one team, with Sherrinford capable on his own. After plummeting snowballs at each other for a quarter of an hour, Sian decided that was enough of that.

"You know what we should do?" she asked as she brushed the snow from the knees of her skirt.

"What?" the boys asked.

"We should build a snowman. It's the perfect snow for snowmen." The boys eagerly agreed. They had only reached the point where Sian was stacking the head onto the other two balls when they heard a blood-curdling scream from inside. Sian's head snapped towards the sound immediately. Oh, God, it was Violet!

"What was that?" Sherrinford asked.

"Never you mind. Stay out here," Sian instructed, lifting her skirt and bolting towards the backdoor. "And keep an eye on your brother!" she yelled over her shoulder.

Sian ran through the door, pausing only long enough to snatch her bag from the table which, thankfully, Mrs. Green hadn't moved. Sian didn't even notice the slushy puddles of snow that she was tracking across the floor; all she was doing was cursing herself for leaving Violet alone. What if she was too late? What if Moriarty killed Violet? What if he killed Sherlock?

Finally, after what seemed like many minutes, but in fact had only been a few seconds, Sian made it to the library. She skidded to a stop in the doorway, looking at the scene in the library.

Moriarty was behind Violet, holding her at knifepoint. He had one arm wrapped around her throat, and the other was holding a large knife at her stomach. Sian then became aware of Siger; he was standing in the doorway, leading from his office to the library.

"Please, sir," Siger pleaded. "Please let go of my wife." His hands in the air, a symbol of his helplessness, Siger took a hesitant half-step forward.

"Don't you move!" Moriarty warned, pushing the blade against Violet's stomach. Violet squeaked, and Sian could see a thin line of blood on her gown. "Come any closer, and I'll make sure that this is extremely painful for your wife!"

"Please! I'll give you anything if you let her go!" Siger begged. "Any amount of money!"

"Money cannot buy the satisfaction of killing this child," Moriarty said.

What happened next occurred in a split second, but it seemed to last an eternity. Sian saw Moriarty's wrist flinch, about to plunge the blade into Violet's stomach, and, subsequently, into the unborn Sherlock. Sian did the only thing that she knew to do; she lifted her arm and fired Watson's revolver. Almost as if in slow-motion, Sian saw Moriarty's head recoil as the bullet entered the side of his skull. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, with the blood spurting from the bullet hole. Violet fell down, screaming, onto the dead Moriarty, and Sian remained, arm still outstretched and gun pointed where Moriarty had been standing.

Siger rushed forward to Violet; as she was sobbing in his arms, he glanced up at Sian. Her arm was trembling, but so was Siger.

"Thank you, Sian," he said breathlessly. "You saved Violet's life."

"Siger!" Violet cried. "Take me upstairs. I must go upstairs!"

"Of course, dear," Siger said soothingly.

"No! You don't understand; the baby's coming!"

"Oh, my God!" Siger cried. "Help me take her upstairs, would you, Sian?" She nodded, and as they were helping Violet upstairs, Siger caught sight of Sykes. "Sykes, my good man!" he called. "There's a dead body in the library; take care of that, won't you?" The expression on the butler's face was priceless, but Sian was too anxious to enjoy it; she had to make sure that Violet delivered Sherlock safely.

They finally managed to get Violet into her childbed.

"What should we do?" Siger asked nervously as Sian changed Violet into a shift.

"Go and fetch a doctor," Sian instructed.

"The boys," Violet gasped out.

"What, my love?" Siger asked her.

"The boys; they're still outside. Do have Mrs. Green warm them up; I don't want them to get frostbitten."

As Siger darted out of the room, Sian glanced down at Violet, whose face was a chalky white, soaked in sweat.

"I'm so sorry, Violet," Sian said.

"It wasn't you, Sian. I turned you away; but you saved me, and I'm thankful for that. Remember that."

---

Meanwhile, back at 221B Baker Street, in the year 1885, Holmes was pacing up and down the parlor. He couldn't keep his mind off of Sian.

"How do you think she's doing?" Holmes asked Watson for about the dozenth time that day. "Do you think that she's alright? Do you think that Moriarty's been successful, and that's what's keeping her?"

"Holmes," Watson said mildly. "Moriarty couldn't have been successful; if he had been, then you and I wouldn't be here having this conversation."

"Oh, right." Holmes walked over to the opposite window, looking out. "But how do you think Sian is doing?"

"She seemed like a remarkable woman to me," Watson said. "And perfectly capable of her mission. I'd wager to say that she's going along splendidly."

"Hmmph," Holmes grumbled, stalking over to his usual chair and sitting down. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

"Isn't today your birthday?" Watson asked Holmes. Holmes glanced up, startled.

"What?"

"Your birthday. Today's the sixth."

Holmes glanced at the calendar behind him. "So it is," he agreed. "Yes, today is my birthday. I am thirty-one years old today."

"Happy birthday."

"Hmmph." It'd be happier if he knew that Sian was safe.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: still not mine.

P.S.—I'm going home for Thanksgiving today, so I can't guarantee that the next update will be very prompt. But I will definitely upload a new chapter by Monday, at the very latest! And Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

:-)

Chapter Nineteen

Violet was in labor for eighteen hours before the high-pitched screams of a baby were heard from the room.

Sian was standing on the other side of the door, waiting to be summoned. The boys had originally been standing with her, but they soon grew bored and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Green was baking cookies. Sian was half-tempted by the lure of cookies, but she knew that Violet and Sherlock were more important.

Soon, the door was thrown open by a happy Siger. "Oh, there you are, Sian," he said, grinning. "Did you hear? It's a boy!"

Sian smiled. "Congratulations." Siger was practically vibrating with excitement.

"And he's got a healthy set of lungs on him, too," he said with all the pride of a father. Sian laughed.

"That he does. I could hear him from here."

"Come and see him," Siger said, leading Sian into the room.

"How's Violet doing?" Sian started to ask, but she paused. On the bed, Violet was propped up on many pillows, with her arms stretched out. There were vertical slits down her arm, and she was bleeding into a porcelain bowl. "My God," she gasped. "What are they doing?"

Siger gave Sian a strange look. "Violet was feeling weak after the birth, so they're bleeding her. It's a common medical practice," he added. "Haven't you seen bleeding?"

_Oh, crap,_ Sian thought. She remembered the practice now. Sian, who basically learned her history through books and movies, recalled, _it's just like they did to Marianne at the end of_ Sense and Sensibility.

"I suppose that it's falling into disuse in America," Sian explained lamely. Siger, who had never been outside of Europe, accepted the excuse.

Only after the doctor cleaned up her arm and disposed of the blood was Violet allowed to cradle her baby.

"Oohh," she sighed, kissing the baby's red face.

"Siger, Junior!" Siger said happily, but Violet shook her head.

"No," she said. "Sherlock. His name must be Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" he asked dubiously. "But I thought we had agreed on Siger, Junior." Violet shook her head again.

"It _has_ to be Sherlock." She kissed the baby again, and then gasped. "Someone take the baby," she said. "I don't think I can hold him." Her arms buckled, but Siger reached out and took the baby from her.

"Are you feeling alright, my love?" he asked her, passing the baby to Sian.

"No," she said softly. "I feel so weak, so strange…."

"Well, you did just give birth," Siger pointed out. "I'm sure it's normal." Violet shook her head.

"No, it's not." She looked up at Sian, whose tears were now spilling softly onto the baby's blanket.

"You knew, didn't you?" Violet asked Sian. Sian nodded. Violet settled into her pillows.

"Know what?" Siger asked, his voice sounding fearful.

"Thank you for not telling me," Violet said to Sian. "I— it was probably better that way."

"What's better?" Siger asked.

"Siger, my dear, I'm dying," Violet said, as bravely as she could, but Sian could hear the wobbliness in her voice.

"What? No!" Siger protested. He clasped onto Violet's hand, as if holding her would prevent death from taking her. "You're fine, Violet," he said. "You've given birth before. You'll get better. You always do."

"Not this time," Violet said. "Sian. Go get the boys; I want to say good-bye to them." Sian nodded, and, after passing the baby to the doctor's assistant, she dashed downstairs. She could hear Siger yelling, "Doctor! Do something!" She never heard the doctor's grim reply, "We've already bled her; there's nothing else we can do."

She found the boys sitting at the kitchen table, eating Mrs. Green's fresh cookies.

When they saw Sian, they instantly started bouncing in their seats.

"What is it? What is it?" they asked excitedly.

"A boy," Sian rasped out.

"Is he alive?" Sherrinford asked poignantly.

"Yes," Sian said. At first, she was taken aback by his morbidity, but then she remembered that out of Sherrinford's three siblings that Violet delivered, only one had been living. Well, make that two out of four now.

"You boys need to go upstairs right now," Sian said. "Your mother wants you." Mrs. Green gave Sian a startled yet knowing glance, and Sian nodded.

"Why? What's wrong?" Mycroft asked.

"Ye'd best be goin' to see yer mother," Mrs. Green said, shooing the boys away from the table.

When they got upstairs, Sherrinford and Mycroft knew immediately that something was wrong. They could see their father crying, standing vigil by their ghost-white mother. The doctor went up to Sian.

"There's nothing I can do to save your cousin," he whispered to Sian. "The best thing to do is let you have a family moment before she goes." The assistant shoved the baby into Sian's arms. "We'll be in the next room if you need us," the doctor said as he closed the door behind them.

Sian spun around and saw the two boys standing soberly by their mother's bedside. She could see the tears streaming down their faces.

"But, Mama, you can't die!" Mycroft sobbed. Violet wearily stroked his hair.

"Believe me, my love, I don't want to," Violet said. "But I can't stop myself if God is calling me. Now, give Mama kisses." The boys, still crying, kissed their mother's face. When they pulled away, Violet stroked the tops of their heads. "I will miss my boys," she said. She turned to Sian, who was standing in the corner, cradling Sherlock. "Sian, come here." Sian obeyed. "Let me kiss Sherlock once more." After she kissed her baby's red face, she caressed his small head. "You will take good care of him, won't you, Sian?" she asked. Ah, Violet still thought that Sherlock would marry her.

"If he lets me, I will," Sian promised. Violet nodded, content.

"Siger?" He was by her side in an instant.

"Violet, please don't leave me," he begged. She smiled weakly.

"I don't want to," she said softly. "I love you, Siger." And, like a candle in the wind, her life flame flickered out.

"No!" Siger sobbed, holding her cold hand to his warm face. "Violet!"

"Mama!" the boys cried, trying desperately to call her back.

And Sian stood, against the wall, watching as the family mourned for their beloved mother, who died bringing the man she loved into the world.

---

Sian had all-but taken over the household the day that Violet died; it was she who had made Mrs. Green prepare milk for the baby and she who had sent Sykes into town to advertise for a wet-nurse and a governess. And it was she who was acting as the substitute mother.

Sherlock's cradle was set up in Sian's room. It was an unusual circumstance; not many women could say that they cared for the men they loved in their infancy, especially when that man was older than her anyway.

In the middle of the night, Sian awoke to the faint sounds of sobbing. She lifted her head; it wasn't Sherlock. She climbed out of bed and followed the noise. It was coming from Mycroft's room.

She rushed into his room, and her heart broke as she saw him weeping violently into his pillow. She sat down next to him on his bed, and his arms went instantly around her waist, sobbing into her lap.

"Mama! Mama, come back!" he cried. Sian stroked his hair, making soothing sounds. Eventually, he cried all the tears he had in him. Sian heard him mumble into her lap.

"What was that, dear?" Mycroft lifted his head an inch.

"I said, 'it's all that stupid baby's fault!' " he cried angrily.

"Oh, no. No, it's not Sherlock's fault," Sian said.

"Yes, it is! If it wasn't for him, Mama would be all right."

"Listen to me, sweetie. Your Mama loved you boys very much. All _three_ of you. And she wouldn't want you to hate your brother. You should love him and take care of him; that's what your Mama would want." Mycroft dwelled on this.

"Okay?" Sian asked.

"Okay."

"Good."

"Don't tell Sherrinford I was crying, alright, Aunt Sian?" Mycroft asked. "He'll laugh at me and call me a baby."

"No I won't," a voice from the doorway protested. Sherrinford came in and sat on Sian's other side, curling up against her. Sian wrapped her arms around the two of them.

"Can we sleep with you tonight, Aunt Sian?" Sherrinford asked pitifully. Just as Sian was opening her mouth, they heard Sherlock's cries from the other room.

"I don't think you'll want to," Sian said. "Sherlock will be crying all night. Why don't you boys go into your father's room? I'm sure he'd like that." The boys nodded and headed off to Siger's room, while Sian went off to feed Sherlock.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I only have ownership of volumes one and two of the Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes, plus a much-battered copy of _the Hound of the Baskervilles_ that has suffered much abuse over the past six years. But that's about it.

Chapter Twenty

The funeral was a quiet event, but one of the hardest things that Sian had ever gone through. As she stood around the grave with Siger, Sherrinford, and Mycroft, Sian felt the deepest sorrow of her life. Never before had she felt this sad; not when her hamster died when she was seven, not when her parents divorced when she was ten, and not even—as bad as it may sound—when her grandfather died. Her grandfather hadn't left behind three little boys, all under the age of ten. Her grandfather hadn't died when he was thirty-one. It was because of these things that added to the heaviness of Sian's heart.

Sian was amazed at how quickly she had developed a bond with this family. Violet, in the few weeks she had known her, and become as close as any friend she had ever had, and certainly closer than her sister; Sherrinford and Mycroft were just as dear to her as Paris and London; even Siger felt like family to Sian. So even though her mission was completed, Sian couldn't bring herself to just pick up and leave—not yet, at least. She at least had to remain for a few days after the death.

The boys were trying to bear their mother's death manfully, and that broke Sian's heart even more. Both Sherrinford and Mycroft had taken to wearing their mother's birthstone rings on chains around their necks. When they thought that no one was looking, they would often pull the rings out from under their shirts and stroke them. The garnet ring for Sherlock was in a small box in the bureau in the nursery now.

One night, as Sian was tucking Mycroft into bed, he declared, "When I grow up, I'm never getting married."

"Why's that, dear?" Sian asked, sitting at the edge of his bed.

"Because, my wife might die, and I never want to see anyone die again, ever."

"Oh, honey," Sian said sympathetically. "Dying is a natural part of life; everyone has to die sometime. Isn't it better to have loved someone for a little while, rather than not at all?"

Mycroft considered this. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I'm still never getting married."

Mycroft was a stubborn child, Sian knew, and it just didn't seem worth it to argue life, love, and death with a seven-year-old.

"Whatever you say, Mycroft," Sian said, kissing him good-night.

As she went to say good-night to Sherrinford, Sian thought, _well, now at least I understand why the three Holmes brothers are all still bachelors._

---

The next day, as Sian was changing the baby's diaper—and it was moments like these that Sian_ always _made sure to refer to him "the baby" as opposed to "Sherlock," because that was too awkward, even for Sian—Siger wandered into the nursery.

He watched intently as she worked.

"I've never done that," he observed as Sian pinned the diaper shut.

Sian, who knew that there was a time and a place for spreading the gospel of feminism, or at least the pseudo-feminism that included men changing their own baby's diapers, said nothing more than a polite, "Oh?"

"Yes." After a stretch of silence, Siger said, "I'm interviewing a wet-nurse this afternoon."

The idea still appalled Sian to a certain extent, but she knew that was the practice of the nineteenth century. She wondered vaguely when baby formula was going to be invented.

"Ah," she said.

"Yes. And a governess for the boys."

Sian managed a smile. "That is excellent."

"Yes." Siger looked up at Sian. "But that—that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Sian." Sian narrowed her eyebrows.

"What?"

"I wanted to ask you if… that is, if you… if you would consider remaining here at Holmes Manor."

"I don't understand."

"The boys like you," Siger said. "And I like you. You remind us a bit of Violet, and, well, I was wondering if you would stay here and help take care of the boys."

"Take care of the boys?"

"We can still employ a governess as well," Siger rushed to say. "It's just that, well, you are Violet's cousin, and I would like you to stay here with your family."

"I— oh, Siger."

"I will allow it," he said. Sian gave him a confused glance. "Remember?" Siger explained. "Violet asked you to take good care of Sherlock, and you said you would, as long as I would let you."

Sian's mind flashed back to that moment…

"_You will take good care of him, won't you, Sian?" Violet had asked_ _desperately._ And Sian remembered what she had said in response…

"_If he lets me, I will."_

_Oh, blast it, Violet meant in marriage, and I meant if Sherlock even asked me! _Sian could, however, understand how Siger took it the way he did.

"Siger," Sian said slowly. "Siger, I can't stay."

"And why is that?" Siger asked, gruffly.

"This is hard for me to say, but I must move on. I can't stay here, as much as I would like to." Sian could see that Siger was grinding his teeth.

"Sian," he said. "But we're your family."

"And that's part of the reason that I must go," Sian said. "I know it doesn't make sense, but please believe me when I say that it's best for us all that I go. I was only hanging around until you hired caretakers for the boys, and now that you have, I feel as I can go." Sian stopped, and glanced at Siger's face. It was the oddest expression, some mix between outrage, disappointment, and deep sorrow. She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I promise that we will meet again," she promised. She then realized that she didn't even know if he was living in 1885, so she amended, "I promise that I will return to Holmes Manor one day."

"Very well," Siger said. "I suppose that the choice is yours."

"I'll leave in the morning," Sian said.

---

It was hard for Sian to say good-bye. The Holmes men—all four of them—were in the foyer as Sian was preparing to leave.

"You can borrow the carriage into town," Siger said, cradling Sherlock.

"I'll be fine," Sian said, winding the scarf around her neck. "Besides, the snow's too deep for wheels." She knelt down beside Sherrinford and Mycroft.

"I'll see you boys later," she promised, kissing them.

"Why are you leaving, Aunt Sian?" Mycroft asked pitifully.

"You'll have to ask Sherlock one day," Sian said cryptically. "But I must go now. I'll see you all later." And with that, Sian picked up her carpetbag and walked out of the door. She had gone about twenty feet before she turned around and looked at the house. In the panes of two windows were the faces of two little boys that meant the world to her. She waved her mittened hand one last time before walking off.

When she had finally lost sight of the house, Sian hid behind a tree and, using Moriarty's transporter, launched herself back to 1885.

---

Watson and Holmes were sitting in the parlor of 221B Baker Street when Sian started to reappear. Watson stealthily crept out of the room when he saw the telltale blue light. Holmes, who failed to notice Watson's flight, practically leapt out of his seat.

"Sian!" he yelped, but then, regaining his composure, he said, "Miss Fairfax."

"Sherlock," she said, nodding her head.

"I take it that you were successful in your mission?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I was. I shot Moriarty in the head." Holmes gaped at her. "He was holding a knife to your mother," Sian explained. "He was about to stab her. Well, you, really, since she was still pregnant with, um, you."

"Ah."

Silence.

"Here's Watson's revolver," Sian said, pulling the weapon from her reticule.

"Why don't you give it to Watson himself? He's right here."

"Sherlock," Sian said mildly. "Watson isn't here." Holmes glanced over his shoulder, but all that was in Watson's chair was the London Times.

"Oh. I suppose he isn't, then." He accepted the revolver and laid it on the side table.

More silence.

"What, uh, exactly took you so long?" Holmes asked. "You said you shot Moriarty while my mother was still, um, with child."

"I did," Sian admitted. "But I couldn't leave right after your mother's death. That would have been cold."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose it might have been."

Even more silence. _God. Why are we being so uncomfortable around each other? _Holmes wondered. _We've always clicked rather well. We've never had long stretches of silence before, ever. We're usually talking. Or arguing._ Holmes knew Sian mustn't be herself if she wasn't trying to pick a fight.

"Then I suppose you're done now," Holmes said finally.

"Yes. I suppose I am."

Silence again. _What is _wrong_ with us?_ Sian wondered. There were many questions that Sian wanted to ask Holmes, if she was brave enough to ask in the first place. Like, what were his true feelings for her? Had she somehow offended him? Why was he being so quiet?

"I suppose I should be going home now," Sian said finally.

"Yes," Holmes said. "I suppose you should."

"Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye."

And Sian disappeared from Holmes's life. Forever, he supposed.

"Smooth, Holmes. Very smooth." Holmes turned to the voice. Watson was coming back in the room.

"Where did you disappear to?" Holmes demanded.

"I left, to give you and Sian a private moment that I assumed that you would want. You didn't even seize the opportunity. Very smooth."

"What are you talking about?" Holmes asked angrily.

"That was best way I've seen a man confess his love to a woman in all my years."

"I didn't confess anything!"

"I know. Brilliant job."

Holmes didn't know what to say; he'd never seen a sarcastic Watson before.

"Why did you let her go?" Watson demanded.

"It was time for her to go. She'd spent enough time in the past."

"Damnation, Holmes! Don't you love her?"

"Yes."

"Don't you want to be with her?"

"Yes."

"Then why aren't you with her?"

"I can't stay in the future, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed. "If I may quote what you yourself said not too long ago, 'Just think about how London, England, or the world would exist without you.' I couldn't have gone to the future with Sian."

"Why didn't you ask her to stay here with you?" Watson yelled.

Holmes, not for the first time that day, was speechless.

"Well?"

"Evidently, she did not wish to say," Holmes said calmly, regaining his composure. "She wanted to leave."

"Well, no wonder, poor girl, with the way you were acting."

"How _I_ was acting?"

"Yes. You claim that you love her, yet I've seen no hint of that so-called affection."

"Well…."

"Why didn't you ask her to stay with you?"

"I, uh…." The idea had never occurred to Holmes. "You really think she would have stayed?"

Watson shook his head sadly. "For an ingenious man, Holmes, you certainly know nothing of the real world." And he left the parlor, leaving Holmes more confused than he ever had been in his thirty-one years.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: not mine

Chapter Twenty-One

It was Saturday in 2007 when Sian finally made it home. Her Christmas tree had dropped some serious pine needles all over the carpet since she had gone, and the water in its stand had long-since disappeared. She had thirty-four messages on her answering machine, forty-one voicemails on her cell, and nineteen new e-mails in her inbox. Sian dreaded opening her mailbox, which was undoubtedly crammed tight with mail. And probably all bills, too, just to add insult to injury.

Well, she _had_ given the principal an excuse, albeit a rather lame one, for her immanent absences. She had said that her grandmother from Australia had died, and she had to fly to Alice Springs right away for the funeral. She had said that she would be gone all through her holiday break, and would undoubtedly need to use every single one of her sick days afterwards. She knew that she had gone over her allotted absences by a few days. Basically, Sian was in deep crap.

Well, it was Saturday. Might as well leave all of the worries for Sunday. That way, she could enjoy one more night among the living.

Somehow, even after her adventure, Sian couldn't fall asleep. She was lounging around in the living room in her pajamas, a luxury she hadn't enjoyed since October. Even with her twenty-first century sensibility, Sian hadn't been overly fond of the notion of strutting around the house in her pink pajamas in front of a man.

She heard a knocking at the door. She was hesitant to answer because of her wardrobe, but she chastised herself. _I'm in plaid pants and a top. Spaghetti-strap, maybe, but it's perfectly modest enough. It isn't as if I'm wearing a negligee. It's probably just the neighbors, anyway,_ she reasoned with herself. _They probably noticed that my light was on for the first time in weeks and wanted to make sure I'm okay. And possibly that I haven't joined any cults._

Thus encouraged, Sian opened the door and gasped.

It was Sherlock at the door.

"Sherlock!" she cried.

"Sian," he returned.

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted. He then noticed Sian's pajamas. "But I hope that I haven't awoken you."

"No, no. I couldn't sleep either."

"Ah."

"Do you want to come in?" Sian asked. "It's kinda cold out here."

"Yes, thank you." They sat down on the couch together, just as they had done a hundred times before, but somehow, it was so awkward. Oh, would they ever be comfortable around each other again?

"Would you like some tea?" Sian offered.

"No, thank you."

"Would you like nothing at all?"

"I _would_ like to apologize."

"Apologize?"

"Yes," Holmes said. "Apologize. For being an unmitigated and unforgivable ass. I should not have treated you with the disrespect that I did before you went and risked your life for me, and for that I am sorry."

"Oh," Sian said, disappointedly. "Well, you're forgiven—no worries about that." She paused. "Was that all you stopped by to say?"

"No; not quite." Sian nodded, an invitation to continue speaking. Holmes, nervous like he had never been before, gathered his thoughts before he finally plunged bravely into what he wanted to say. Or, rather, ask.

"Sian," Holmes said. "You once promised me that you would take care of me as long as I needed you to. Do you remember that?" Sian, confused, nodded. She vaguely remembered saying something to that extent soon after she believed Holmes's story. "Well," Holmes continued, "I'm afraid that I need you, Sian, for now and for always. Sian, will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

"Y— your wife?" Sian managed to squeak.

"Yes." Holmes then took her by surprise and bended down on one knee. "Will you marry me? Please?"

Holmes was not a romantic man. Sian was even mildly surprised that he knew it was the custom for a man to take a knee while proposing to his prospective fiancée. But when Sian looked down – Sian supposed that this would be the only time in which she actually towered over him – her heart melted at the, well, earnest look in his gray eyes, which were gazing, almost pleadingly, into Sian's own brown eyes.

Sian considered. Marry Holmes? She thought of everything she'd be forsaking from the twenty-first century, like modern medicine, technology, women's suffrage and near-equality, and, heck, even the simple comfort of wearing pants. And that's not even bringing up all of her friends and family she'd be leaving behind—her mom, her dad, Megan, Paris and London, and, hell, even Chelsea and Paul, to a degree. But then Sian looked in Holmes's eyes again, and she saw the love, practically radiating from his being, and she knew that Holmes was the only friend, the only family she needed.

"Yes," Sian said, and then, with more volume, she said, "_Yes!_ There is nothing I want more than to be your wife. To be with _you_," she added meaningfully.

An incredible smile broke out across Holmes's face. "Really?" he asked, delightedly, but as if he had been harboring doubts about her actually accepting his proposition. "Oh, Sian, I—"

Holmes uncharacteristically didn't seem to know what to say, so Sian bestowed the best sort of mercy she could on the poor man, which was, namely, silencing him with a kiss.

Holmes abruptly pulled away.

"Wait," he breathed, reaching for his pocket. "I have a ring for you." Sian was surprised that Holmes even had a ring at all, let alone that he remembered that rings and proposals usually went hand-in-hand.

Sian saw the crimson stone gleam in the dull lamplight. "Oh, Sherlock," she breathed. "Your mother's garnet ring!"

Holmes paused. "Yes," he agreed. He cocked his head to a side. "Was she wearing it when you met her?"

"I saw your father give it to your mother," Sian explained. "The Christmas before you were born."

Holmes nodded, examining the ring. "Would it be better if I got you a new ring?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" Sian exclaimed. "Somehow, I think your mother would have liked that you gave it to me." Satisfied, Holmes slide the ring onto Sian's wedding finger. It fit perfectly; fortunately, Sian had slim fingers like Violet had.

Holmes entwined his fingers with Sian's, admiring the ring on her finger, marking her as a bride-to-be. _His _bride-to-be. He smiled, and leaned down to kiss her.

"Come sit on the couch with me," Sian whispered. Holmes nodded. When they settled onto the sofa, Sian started laughing.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, wondering if she was just laughing from happiness.

That wasn't the case.

"Nice shoes, Sherlock," Sian laughed. Holmes looked down at his feet... and noticed that he had a black shoe on one foot, and a brown shoe on the other. His face reddened, which made Sian feel sorry for him.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," she said sympathetically, running her fingers through his short black hair. "I'm sure that you're just starting a trend. Tomorrow, all the men will be sporting mismatching shoes."

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock protested. "And I was in a rush to get here—I didn't turn on any lights. It's the best I could do in the dark."

Sian laughed, patting his chest. "Well, I just should be happy that you managed to find a left shoe and a right shoe." Sherlock laughed, and Sian snuggled into his side.

"I love you," she reminded him.

"And I love you, too."

---

Note: this isn't finished quite yet… I'm thinking maybe for another chapter or two (possibly three, but most likely two), and then it'll be complete.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: not mine

Note: sorry for the hold-up. It's the end of the semester and I have a ton of work to do. But that's not a very interesting story, so I'll stop now.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next morning, the doorbell rang much earlier than usual at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson bustled to the door and opened it partially, revealing a young blonde woman on the doorstep.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, but then she noticed the tall man behind the woman. "Why, Mr. Holmes!" she cried, throwing the door open all the way. "I thought you were still abed!"

Holmes grinned – an expression so uncharacteristic of him that it startled Mrs. Hudson—and he said, "No, Mrs. Hudson, I am not abed. I was out, claiming this beautiful young woman as my wife."

"Wife?" Mrs. Hudson asked, then noticing that their hands were entwined. Mrs. Hudson finally recognized the woman as Miss Sian Fairfax, the woman who had traveled to the past to save Mr. Holmes's life.

"We're engaged, you see," Sian explained, smiling.

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Engaged? Mr. Holmes? Why, I never would have thought!"

"No one would have, I can assure you," Holmes said mildly.

"I shall prepare you two the best celebratory breakfast you have ever had!" Mrs. Hudson declared. She liked to show her feelings through food, which was certainly satisfactory to the men of the household.

Holmes and Sian, still holding hands, walked into the dining room, where Dr. Watson was reading the morning post. He glanced up.

"Holmes!" he said. "And Miss Fairfax! What a surprise! You took my advice, I see."

"Your advice?" Sian pounced on the telltale phrase, giving Holmes a suspicious glance. "What do you mean, Dr. Watson?"

"I mean that I had to put the idea into Holmes's head to return for you. That is, I assume that you will be remaining here, my dear."

"Yes; Sherlock proposed to me last night."

"Congratulations."

Sian pulled her hand free from Holmes's grasp and bounced over to Watson. She gave him a hearty kiss on the cheek. Watson looked up, startled.

"What did I do to merit that?" he asked.

"For giving Sherlock the kick in the butt that he needed," Sian said, giving Holmes a mock-glare. "I will always be thankful for you for that."

"All in a day's work," Watson joked.

---

"So, when are you two getting married?" Watson asked over their hearty breakfast. Holmes and Sian exchanged glances.

"I don't know," Holmes admitted. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow sounds good," Sian agreed, nodding.

"Tomorrow!" Watson, a veteran in matrimony, yelped. "Why, that gives you no time at all to prepare for the wedding!"

"We really don't want a big church wedding," Sian explained softly. "All we need is a justice of the peace and a few friends to share the day with."

"You being one of those friends, of course," Holmes added. "That is, if you'd like to come."

"I'd be delighted."

"Good. So today, I am going to purchase a marriage license and a pair of wedding bands…"

"And I'm going to get a white dress," Sian added. "Even if our wedding is nothing conventional, I stand firm on my desire for a white dress.

"You'll need other clothes as well, Sian," Holmes reminded her. "All you have now are Mrs. Hudson's old things."

"And they've all been dyed black in mourning," Sian agreed. "Yes, clothing is generally a good idea."

"Anything else?" Holmes pondered.

"We need to see your brother," Sian said decidedly.

"My brother?" Holmes asked, startled. "Which brother?"

"The one who lives in London, brilliant one," Sian said. "Mycroft."

"Oh. Why?"

"To invite him to the wedding, of course."

---

It was later that afternoon when Sian and Holmes found themselves at the Pall Mall.

"The Diogenes Club is right across the street," Holmes said over his shoulder as he led her to the building.

"Right. And what is the Diogenes Club, again?" Sian asked.

"A social club for unsociable men," Holmes explained quickly, as he held the door open for Sian. "Mycroft will be in the back rooms, where talking is not permitted – you'll need to wait in the Stranger's Room while I fetch him."

"Um, okay," Sian said, settling down in a red velvet chair. She daintily crossed her legs, the picture of prim patience. "I'll be right here, then." Holmes couldn't help the grin spreading across his face. He still couldn't get over the fact that that woman—that gorgeous, wonderful woman, who was pretending to be interested in the copy of _the Strand_ magazine that she had found next to her chair—was his. Unfathomable.

Sian glanced up at Holmes when he was staring at her. "Aren't you getting your brother?" she asked, amused.

"Uh, yes," Holmes said, tearing his gaze away from her. "I was just going." Sian smiled that flirty smirk that Holmes had come to love so much.

"Of course," she said.

"I was," Holmes insisted.

"So go."

"Oh, right."

As Holmes bounded off down the hallway, Sian giggled to herself behind the pages of the magazine.

---

Holmes found Mycroft in his usual alcove in the reading room of the Diogenes Club. When Mycroft saw a shadow fall across his newspaper, he glanced up, startled. The first surprise was that it was his little brother Sherlock standing in front of him. Sherlock didn't come round to the Diogenes Club frequently. But the second—and most startling—surprise was that Sherlock was, well, _beaming_. Mycroft was taken aback.

Sherlock motioned that he wanted Mycroft to follow him, so Mycroft heaved a silent sigh, laid his newspaper on his chair, and followed his curious younger brother out to the hallway.

When they reached the safety of the hallway, Mycroft said, "I perceive that you are happy about something. Ecstatic, even. I haven't seen you this happy since you discovered that chemical re-agent that was precipitated only by hemoglobin. What's the good news?"

Sherlock grinned at his brother, which startled Mycroft even more. Good God, was Sherlock truly _bouncing_ in excitement?

"My dear Mycroft," Sherlock said, unable to hide the pure delight in his voice. "I have excellent news."

"I know that!" Mycroft said. "Now out with it, man!"

Sherlock's eyes were dancing. "I," he said dramatically, "am engaged."

"Engaged?" Mycroft asked, puzzled. "Engaged for what?"

"To be married, of course," Sherlock said mildly.

"What? Engaged? Married? You?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, bemused. "I am."

Mycroft considered. "Are you sure?" he asked, finally. Sherlock threw his hands in the air.

"Why does everyone find it so difficult to believe that I am engaged?" he asked.

"Well, no offense, Sherlock, but you've never exactly been a lady's man."

"Well," Sherlock said, brows raised. "I am."

Mycroft chuckled. "I believe you. I've never seen you so blasted happy before. It's almost sickening."

"Thanks for that," Sherlock said softly.

"So, who is the young lady?"

Sherlock grinned again. "She's waiting in the Stranger's Room," he said eagerly. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I should have known."

As they walked down the hallway, Mycroft observed his younger brother.

"You're a changed man, Sherlock," Mycroft noted. Sherlock's hand hovered above the doorknob. He turned to face his brother.

"How so?" he asked.

"I've never seen you like this in your entire life. You've got a bounce in your step, a gleam in your eyes, and I don't think you've stopped grinning since you got here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, even as he smiled. "Thanks, Mycroft."

"You must really love this woman."

"I do," Sherlock said sincerely. He opened the door softly and slowly.

"Where is she?" Mycroft asked, glancing in.

"Right there." Sherlock gestured at the only person in the room.

"Her?" The woman's face was obscured, and the only definite feature that Mycroft could tell was her golden hair, which contrasted sharply with the gloomy darkness of the room like a halo.

Mycroft looked from the woman to his brother, back at the woman, and then back at his brother. "That beauty?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"You doubt that I have a beautiful woman in love with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, five minutes ago, I would have doubted that any woman was in love with you. Even a homely one."

"Enough of your teasing," Sherlock demanded.

"What's the use of having a younger brother if I can't tease him?" Mycroft wondered aloud.

"Well, you could act like any other man and simply shake my hand and congratulate me," Sherlock said dryly.

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?"

Sian finally lifted her face from the magazine, and when she saw Sherlock, her eyes lit up. Even skeptical Mycroft could see the obvious love in her eyes.

"Allow me to introduce you," Sherlock said formally. "Mycroft, this is my fiancée, Miss Sian Fairfax."

"Wait," Mycroft said. "Sian Fairfax?" He glanced over at Sian, who was blushing slightly. He recognized her instantly. _"Aunt Sian?"_ he demanded. Sian blushed even further.

Sherlock in turn gave Sian a bemused look. "Aunt Sian?" he asked her. She shrugged.

"I had to get in the house some way," she told him. She turned to Mycroft. "Hi, Mycroft."

Mycroft, needless to say, was flabbergasted.

"Well," he said finally. "I have four options. Either you are the daughter of my aunt Sian…"

"I'm not."

"…you are not the Sian Fairfax who stayed with my family when Sherlock was born and when my mother died…"

"I am."

"…you are remarkably well-preserved since 1854…"

"I'm not."

"…or," Mycroft said finally "you and my brother have quite a story to explain."

Sian glanced at Sherlock. "D, final answer, Regis," she said.

"_What?"_

"Sian," Sherlock said, dryly. "Mycroft is not going to understand that reference."

"I know," Sian nodded. "I considered it. But I knew that you would get the reference, so I decided to say it anyway."

"What in the blazes are you two talking about?" Mycroft demanded, uncharacteristically out of patience.

"Mycroft," Sian said to the corpulent man who once was a scrawny seven-year-old. "Do we have a story for you."


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: not mine

Note: oh, my gosh, I am so ashamed of myself… I have become what I hate, which is, basically, an author who doesn't update. I do have an excuse, albeit a bad one… my computer here at home is ancient… I'm pretty sure it was the computer that Marco Polo used when he mapquested his way to China, that is, if he had used mapquest… and I couldn't make the blasted thing upload chapters to this site, and my laptop, which I use at school, has no internet connection at home. Please forgive me!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mycroft listened intently as Sian and Sherlock explained their narrative. He nodded and shook his head at different points of the tale, but never did he interrupt.

"So," Sherlock said. "What do you think?"

"I think that insanity must run in the family," Mycroft said dryly.

"What?"

"Well, the way I see it, either you're insane for telling such a story, or I'm insane for believing it."

"So you do believe me?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. He glanced over Sian, whose hand was currently rested "casually" on Sherlock's knee. "But I must say, I doubt I'd believe a word of it if it wasn't for Aun—I mean, Miss Fairfax."

"Sian," Sian reminded him.

"Right. So, when are you two getting married?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mycroft echoed. "That's rather short notice, don't you think?"

"Quite the contrary," Sherlock quipped. "We've known each other for 152 years."

Mycroft ignored Sherlock's lame attempt at humor; instead, he turned to Sian. "My dear," he said, "Since you weren't truly a member of the Holmes family thirty-one years ago, I am happy that you are going to be."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sian said, still with a hint of auntly affection.

---

Sherlock and Sian were married the next day, with the only guests being Mycroft and Dr. Watson.

Sherlock carried Sian through the threshold (Watson had considerably made plans to stay elsewhere for the night). Sherlock set his wife – _his wife_ – down on the bed.

"Are you happy?" Sherlock asked, kissing Sian on the cheek. Sian smiled.

"Of course," she said, throwing her arms around his neck. Sherlock pulled his head back.

"And you don't regret staying here?" he asked earnestly.

"No."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all," she affirmed.

"And you don't want to go back to the twenty-first century?"

"_Sherlock!_ No! I'm happy here in the nineteenth century!"

"Good," Sherlock said decidedly, wrapping his arms around Sian's waist. "Because I'm not going to let you go."

"Good, because I'm not leaving. You're stuck with me forever," Sian bantered.

"I wonder how this all will affect those blasted books?" Sherlock wondered aloud. Sian rolled her eyes.

"Shut up and kiss me," she commanded. Sherlock was happy to comply.


End file.
